THE  BLOOD  SHIP 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP 


BY 

NORMAN  SPRINGER 


NEW  YORK 
W.   J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
First  Edition 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP 


409333 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  the  writing  guy  who  drew  this  story  out 
of  Captain  Shreve.  He  talked  so  much  I  think 
the  Old  Man  spun  the  yarn  just  to  shut  him 
up.  He  had  talked  ever  since  his  arrival  on  board, 
early  that  morning,  with  a  letter  from  the  owners' 
agent,  and  the  announcement  he  intended  making  the 
voyage  with  us.  He  had  weak  lungs,  he  said,  and 
was  in  search  of  mild,  tropical  breezes.  Also,  he 
was  seeking  local  color,  and  whatever  information 
he  could  pick  up  about  "King"  Waldon. 

He  had  heard  of  the  death  of  "King"  Waldon, 
down  in  Samoa — Waldon,  the  trader,  of  the  vanish 
ing  race  of  island  adventurers — and  he  expected 
to  travel  about  the  south  seas  investigating  the 
"king's"  past,  so  he  could  write  a  book  about  the 
old  viking.  He  had  heard  that  Captain  Shreve  had 
known  Waldon.  Hence,  he  was  honoring  a  cargo 
carrier  with  his  presence  instead  of  taking  his  ease 
upon  a  mail-boat. 

Captain  Shreve  must  tell  him  all  he  knew  about 
the  "king."  He  was  intensely  interested  in  the 
subject.  Splendid  material,  you  know.  That  roman 
tic  legend  of  Waldon's  arrival  in  the  islands — too 


2  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

good  to  be  true,  and  certainly  too  good  not  to  put 
into  a  book.  Was  Captain  Shreve  familiar  with 
the  tale?  How  this  fellow,  Waldon,  sailed  into  a 
Samoan  harbor  in  an  open  boat,  his  only  companion 
his  beautiful  young  wife?  Imagine — this  man  and 
woman  coming  from  nowhere,  sailing  in  from  the 
open  sea  in  a  small  boat,  never  telling  whence  they 
came! 

He  said  this  was  the  stuff  to  go  into  his  book. 
Romance,  mystery!  It  was  quite  as  important  as 
the  later  and  better  known  incidents  in  the  "king's'* 
life.  That  was  why  Captain  Shreve  must  tell  him 
all  he  knew  about  the  fellow.  If  he  could  only  get 
at  the  beginning  of  the  "king's"  career  in  the  islands. 
Where  did  the  fellow  come  from?  Why  should  a 
man  bring  his  bride  into  an  uncivilized  and  lawless 
section-  of  the  world,  and  settle  down  for  life? 
There  must  be  a  story  in  that.  Ah,  yes,  and  he  was 
the  man  who  could  properly  do  it. 

Well,  that  was  the  way  that  writer  talked.  He 
talked  so  steadily  nobody  could  slide  a  word  in 
edgeways.  Yet  he  said  he  wanted  information. 
We  wondered.  If  the  ability  to  deliver  an  unending 
monologue,  consisting  chiefly  of  the  ninth  letter  in 
the  alphabet,  is  any  sign  of  lung  power,  that  chap 
didn't  need  any  cod-liver  oil  or  sea  air.  He  could 
have  given  up  writing,  and  still  have  made  a  good 
living  ashore  as  a  blacksmith's  bellows!  And  as 
for  the  local  color  and  information — well,  he  blinked 
through  his  black  rimmed  glasses  at  our  immaculate 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  3 

decks,  and  said  it  was  a  pity  they  built  ships  for  use 
and  not  for  looks  nowadays,  and  went  on  talking 
about  himself,  and  what  he  could  do  with  "King" 
Waldon. 

Briggs,  the  mate,  confided  to  me  in  a  soft  aside 
that  the  chap  was  making  the  voyage  because  he 
knew  he  had  an  audience  which  couldn't  escape — 
unless  it  jumped  over  the  side.  Captain  Shreve 
didn't  confide;  his  face  kept  its  accustomed  expres 
sion  of  serenity,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to  stem 
the  author's  flood  of  words.  I  was  somewhat  sur 
prised  by  this  meekness,  for  our  Old  Man  is  a  great 
hand  to  puncture  a  windbag;  but  then,  I  reflected, 
the  writing  guy,  being  a  passenger,  was  in  the  nature 
of  a  guest  on  board,  and,  according  to  Captain 
Shreve's  code,  a  man  to  be  humored. 

We  lay  in  the  Stream,  with  a  half  dozen  hours 
to  pass  ere  we  proceeded  to  sea.  It  was  Sunday,  so 
we  were  idle,  the  four  of  us  lounging  on  the  lower 
bridge  deck — the  Captain,  Briggs,  myself,  and  this 
human  phonograph.  It  was  a  pleasant  day,  and  we 
would  have  enjoyed  the  loaf  in  the  warm  afternoon 
sunshine,  had  it  not  been  for  the  unending  drivel  of 
the  passenger.  I  enjoyed  it  anyway,  for  even 
though  the  ears  be  filled  with  a  buzzing,  the  eyes 
are  free,  and  San  Francisco  Bay  is  an  interesting 
place. 

"  .  .  .  and  the  critics  all  agree,"  the  passenger 
rambled  on,  "that  my  genius  is  proved  by  my  amaz 
ingly  accurate  portraits  of  character.  I  have  the 


4  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

gift.  That  is  why  I  shall  do  'King'  Waldon  so 
well.  I  need  but  a  mental  image  of  the  man  to 
make  him  live  again.  You  must  tell  me  what  he 
looked  like,  Captain.  Is  it  true,  as  I  have  been  told, 
he  was  such  a  giant  of  a  man,  and  possessed  of  such 
enormous  physical  strength?  And  that  his  hair 
retained  its  yellow  luster  even  in  old  age  ?  And  that 
he  had  a  great  scar  on  his  face,  or  head,  about  which 
he  never  spoke?  Ah,  yes,  you  must  tell  me  about 
him,  Captain." 

Captain  Shreve  grunted  at  this — the  first  sound 
he  had  been  able  to  squeeze  into  the  talk  for  half 
an  hour.  But  the  author  did  not  pause;  in  fact 
he  hastened  on,  as  though  determined  to  forestall 
any  interruption.  Talk!  I  don't  know  when  that 
fellow  found  any  time  to  write.  He  was  too  eager 
to  tell  the  world  about  his  gift. 

"You  know,"  says  he,  "I  need  but  a  few  little 
intimate  facts  about  'King'  Waldon's  appearance 
and  character,  and  I  can  make  him  stalk  through 
my  story  as  truly  alive  as  when  he  was  in  the  flesh. 
If  he  were  alive  I  should  not  need  your  assistance, 
Captain;  one  look  at  the  man  and  I  could  paint  him 
in  his  true  colors.  I  have  that  gift.  Not  men 
alone — I  am  able  to  invest  even  inanimate  objects 
with  personality.  A  house,  a  street,  or  a — yes,  even 
a  ship.  Even  this  ship.  Now,  this  old  box " 

Captain  Shreve  sat  up  straight  in  his  chair.  I 
thought  he  was  rasped  by  the  fellow's  slur,  for  he 
is  very  proud  of  his  ship.  But  it  was  something 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  5 

else  that  rubbed  the  expression  of  patient  resigna 
tion  from  his  face;  he  was  staring  over  the  star 
board  rail  with  an  expression  of  lively  interest.  I 
followed  his  gaze  with  mine,  but  saw  only  a  ferry 
boat  in  the  distance,  and,  close  by,  a  big  red-stack 
tug  towing  a  dilapidated  coal  hulk. 

The  Captain's  eyes  were  upon  this  tow.  He 
tugged  excitedly  at  his  beard.  "Well,  by  George, 
what  a  coincidence!"  he  exclaimed.  He  turned  to 
the  mate,  his  bright  eyes  snapping.  "Look,  Briggs! 
Do  you  know  her?  By  George,  do  you  recognize 
her?" 

The  writing  guy  was  disgusted  by  this  interrup 
tion,  just  when  he  was  going  to  prove  his  genius. 
Briggs  shifted  his  quid,  spat,  and  inspected  the 
passing  hulk  with  extreme  deliberation.  I  looked 
at  her  too,  wondering  what  there  was  about  an  old 
coal-carrier  that  could  pierce  Captain  Shreve's  ac 
customed  phlegm. 

The  tow  was  passing  abreast,  but  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  distant.  The  tug  was  shortening  the 
line,  and  on  the  hulk's  forecastle-head  a  couple  of 
hands  were  busy  at  a  cathead,  preparing  to  let  go 
anchor.  She  was  ill-favored  enough  to  look  at,  that 
hulk — weather-beaten,  begrimed,  stripped  of  all 
that  makes  a  ship  sightly.  Nothing  but  the  worn- 
out  old  hull  was  left.  An  eyesore,  truly.  Yet,  any 
seaman  could  see  with  half  an  eye  she  had  once 
been  a  fine  ship.  The  clipper  lines  were  there. 

Suddenly  Briggs  sat  up  in  his  chair,  and  exclaimed, 


6  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Well,  blast  my  eyes,  so  it  is!"  He  nodded  to  the 
Captain,  and  then  returned  his  regard  to  the  hulk, 
his  nostrils  working  with  interest.  "So  it  is !  So 
it  is  I  Well,  blast  my " 

"Is  what?"  I  demanded.  "What  do  you  two 
see  in  that  old  hull  that  is  so  extraordinary?" 

Just  then  the  writing  guy  decided  we  had  monopo 
lized  the  conversation  long  enough.  So  he  seized 
the  opportunity  to  exercise  for  our  benefit  the  rare 
gift  he  was  endowed  with.  He  glanced  patroniz 
ingly  at  the  coal  hulk,  wrinkled  his  nose  in  disappro 
bation  of  her  appearance,  and  delivered  himself  in 
an  oracular  voice. 

"What  a  horrible  looking  old  tub !  Not  a  diffi 
cult  task  to  invest  hei  with  her  true  personality. 
An  old  workhorse — eh  ?  A  broken  down  old  plug, 
built  for  heavy  labor,  and  now  rounding  out  an 
uninspiring  existence  by  performing  the  most  menial 
of  tasks.  An  apt  description — what?" 

I  noticed  a  faint  smile  crack  the  straight  line  of 
Captain  Shreve's  mouth.  But  it  was  Briggs  who 
was  unable  to  contain  himself.  He  turned  full  upon 
the  poor  scribe,  and  plainly  voiced  his  withering 
scorn. 

"Why,  blast  my  eyes,  young  feller,  if  you  weren't 
as  blind  as  a  bat  you'd  know  you  were  talking  rot ! 
'A  workhorse !'  you  say.  'A  broken  down  old  plug!' 
Blast  me,  man,  look  at  the  lines  of  her!" 

The  passenger  flushed,  and  stared  uncompre- 
hendingly  at  the  poor  old  hulk.  The  tug  had  gone, 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  7 

and  she  was  lying  anchored,  now,  a  few  hundred 
yards  off  our  starboard  bow.  A  sorry  sight.  The 
author  could  see  nothing  but  her  ugliness. 

"Why,  she  is  just  a  dirty  old  scow — "  he  com 
menced. 

"Blast  me,  can't  you  even  guess  what  she  once 
was?"  went  on  Briggs,  relentlessly.  "Well,  young 
feller,  that  dirty  old  scow — as  you  call  her — is  the 
Golden  Bough!" 

The  passenger  only  blinked.  The  name  meant 
nothing  to  him.  But  it  did  to  me. 

"The  Golden  Bough!"  I  echoed.  "Surely  you 
don't  mean  the  Golden  Bough?" 

"But  I  do,"  said  Briggs.  He  waved  his  hand. 
"There  she  is — the  Golden  Bough.  All  that  is 
left  of  the  finest  ship  that  ever  smashed  a  record 
with  the  American  flag  at  her  gaff.  She's  a  coal 
hulk  now,  but  once  she  was  the  finest  vessel  afloat. 
Eh,  Captain?" 

Captain  Shreve  nodded  affirmation.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  writing  guy,  and  courteously  salved 
the  chap's  self-esteem. 

"Small  wonder  you  overlooked  her  build;  it  takes 
a  sailor's  eye  for  such  things.  And  really,  your 
description  strikes  home  to  me.  We  are  all  work- 
hors-s,  are  we  not,  we  of  the  sea?  And  time  breaks 
down  us  all,  man  and  ship."  The  Old  Man  was 
staring  at  the  hulk,  and  his  voice  was  sorrowful. 
"Aye,  but  time  has  used  her  cruelly!  What  a  pity 
— she  was  so  bonny!" 


8  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

The  writing  guy  perked  up  at  this.  "Well,  you 
know,  I  see  her  through  a  layman's  eyes,"  he  ex 
plained.  "And  she  does  look  so  old,  and  dirty,  and 
commonplace " 

Briggs  snorted,  and  the  Captain  hastened  to  con 
tinue,  cutting  off  the  mate's  hard  words.  "Oh,  yes, 
she  looks  old  and  dirty — no  mistake.  But  time  was 
when  no  ship  afloat  could  match  her  for  either  looks 
or  speed.  Aye,  she  was  a  beauty.  Remember  how 
she  looked  in  the  old  days,  Briggs?" 

Briggs  did.  He  emphatically  blasted  his  eyes  to 
the  effect  that  he  remembered  very  well  the  Golden 
Bough  in  the  days  of  her  glory,  the  days  when  she 
was  no  workhorse,  but  a  double-planked  racehorse 
of  the  seas,  as  anyone  but  a  lubber  could  see  she 
had  once  been,  just  by  looking  at  her.  Yes,  blast  his 
eyes,  he  remembered  her.  He  remembered  one 
time  running  the  Easting  down  in  the  Josiah  T. 
Flynn,  a  smart  ship,  with  a  reputation,  and  they 
were  cracking  on  as  they  would  never  dare  crack  on 
in  these  degenerate  days,  when,  blast  his  eyes,  the 
Golden  Bough  came  up  on  them,  and  passed,  and 
ran  away  from  the  poor  old  Flynn,  and  Yankee 
Swope  had  stood  on  his  poopdeck  at  the  passing, 
and  waved  a  hawser-end  at  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Flynn,  asking  if  he  wanted  a  tow.  "And  then  we 
caught  hell,"  commented  Mr.  Briggs.  Aye,  he 
should  say  he  did  remember  the  Golden  Bough. 
But  he  had  never  sailed  in  her. 

"And  she  looks  commonplace  enough,"  continued 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  9 

Captain  Shreve,  "providing  you  know  nothing  of 
her  history.  But  she  does  not  look  commonplace  to 
Briggs  or  me.  I  suppose  we  regard  her  through  the 
mist  of  memory — we  see  the  tall,  beautiful  ship 
that  was.  We  know  the  record  of  that  ship.  Aye, 
lad,  and  if  those  sorry-looking  timbers  yonder  could 
talk,  you  would  not  have  to  make  the  voyage  with 
us  in  order  to  get  a  taste  of  the  salt.  You'd  get 
real  local  color  there — you'd  hear  of  many  a  wild 
ocean  race,  of  smashed  records,  or  shanghaied  crews 
and  mutinies.  Yes,  and  you'd  get,  perhaps,  some  of 
that  particular  information  you  say  you  are  after. 
Those  old,  broken  bulwarks  yonder  have  looked 
upon  life,  I  can  tell  you — and  upon  death." 

"The  dangerous  life  of  the  sailor,  I  presume," 
drawled  the  writing  guy.  "Falling  from  aloft,  and 
being  washed  overboard,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Not  always,"  retorted  Captain  Shreve.  "There 
were  other  ways  of  going  to  Davy  Jones  in  the  old 
clipper  days — and  in  these  days,  also,  for  that  mat 
ter.  Knives,  for  instance,  or  bullets,  or  a  pair  of 
furious  hands — if  you  care  for  violent  tragedy.  But 
I  did  not  mean  the  physical  dangers  of  life,  particu 
larly;  I  meant,  rather,  that  Fate  tangles  lives  on 
board  ship  as  queerly  as  in  cities  ashore.  I  meant 
that  the  Golden  Bough,  in  her  day,  left  her  mark 
upon  a  good  many  lives.  She  broke  men,  and  made 
them.  And  once,  I  know,  she  had  to  do  with  a 
woman's  life,  and  a  woman's  love.  There  was  a 
wedding  performed  upon  that  ship  upon  the  high 


10  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

seas,  and  a  dead  man  sprawled  on  the  deck  at  the 
feet  of  the  nuptial  pair,  and  the  bride  was  the  dead 
man's  widow!" 

"Oh,  come  now — "  said  the  writing  guy.  It  was 
plain  he  thought  the  skipper  was  stringing  him.  But 
I  knew  how  difficult  it  was  to  get  our  Old  Man  to 
spin  a  yarn,  and  I  was  determined  he  should  not 
be  shunted  off  on  a  new  tack.  I  interrupted  the 
author,  hurriedly.  "Did  you  ever  make  a  voyage 
in  the  Golden  Bough,  Captain?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Captain.  "I  was  a  witness  to 
that  wedding;  and  I  played  my  small  part  in  bring 
ing  it  about.  Yes,  that  old  wreck  yonder  has  had 
a  good  deal  to  do  with  my  own  life.  I  received  my 
first  boost  upward  in  the  Golden  Bough.  Shipped 
in  the  foc'sle,  and  ended  the  voyage  in  the  cabin. 
Stepped  into  dead  man's  shoes.  And  more  impor 
tant  than  that — I  won  my  manhood  on  those  old 
decks." 

"Ah,  performed  some  valorous  deed?"  purred 
the  writing  guy. 

"No;  I  abstained  from  performing  an  infamous 
deed,"  said  Captain  Shreve.  "I  think  that  is  the 
way  most  men  win  to  manhood." 

"Oh!"  said  the  writing  guy.  He  seemed  about 
to  say  a  lot  more,  when  I  put  my  oar  in  again. 

"Let  us  have  the  yarn,  Captain,"  I  begged. 

Captain  Shreve  squinted  at  the  sun,  and  then 
favored  the  passenger  with  one  of  his  rare  smiles. 
"Why,  yes,"  he  said.  "We  have  an  idle  afternoon 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  11 

ahead  of  us,  and  I'll  gladly  spin  the  yarn.  You  say, 
sir,  you  are  interested  in  ships,  and  sailors,  and,  par 
ticularly,  in  'King'  Waldon's  history.  Well,  per 
haps  you  may  find  some  material  of  use  in  this  tale 
of  mine ;  though  I  fear  my  lack  of  skill  in  recounting 
it  may  offend  your  trained  mind. 

"Yet  it  is  simply  life  and  living — this  yarn.  Hu 
man  beings  set  down  upon  those  decks  to  work  out 
their  separate  destinies  as  Fate  and  character 
directed.  Aye,  and  their  characters,  and  the  mo 
tives  that  inspired  their  acts,  were  diverse  enough, 
heaven  knows. 

"There  was  Swope,  Black  Yankee  Swope,  who 
captained  that  hell-ship,  a  man  with  a  twisted  heart, 
a  man  who  delighted  in  evil,  and  worked  it  for  its 
own  sake.  There  was  Holy  Joe,  the  shanghaied 
parson,  whose  weak  flesh  scorned  the  torture,  be 
cause  of  the  strong,  pure  faith  in  the  man's  soul. 
There  were  Blackie  and  Boston,  their  rat-hearts 
steeled  to  courage  by  lust  of  gold,  their  rascally, 
seductive  tongues  welding  into  a  dangerous  unit  the 
mob  of  desperate,  broken  stiffs  who  inhabited  the 
foc'sle.  There  were  Lynch  and  Fitzgibbon,  the 
buckos,  living  up  to  their  grim  code ;  and  the  Knit 
ting  Swede,  that  prince  of  crimps,  who  put  most  of 
us  into  the  ship.  There  was  myself,  with  my  child 
ish  vanity,  and  petty  ambitions.  There  was  the  lady, 
the  beautiful,  despairing  lady  aft,  wife  of  the  infam 
ous  brute  who  ruled  us.  There  was  Cockney,  the 
gutless  swab,  whose  lying  words  nearly  had  New- 


12  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

man's  life.  And  last,  and  chiefly,  there  was  the  man 
with  the  scar,  he  who  called  himself  'Newman/ 
man  of  mystery,  who  came  like  the  fabled  knight, 
killed  the  beast  who  held  the  princess  captive,  and 
led  her  out  of  bondage.  And  I  helped  him;  and 
saw  the  shanghaied  parson  marry  them,  there  on 
the  bloody  deck. 

"Stuff  for  a  yarn — eh?  But  just  life,  and  living. 
By  George,  it  was  mighty  strenuous  living,  too !  And 
yet,  well  as  I  know  this  tale  I  lived  in,  I  am  at  a 
loss  how  to  commence  telling  it.  You  know,  sir, 
this  is  where  you  writing  folk  have  at  disadvantage 
the  chaps  who  only  live  their  stories — you  see  the 
yarn  from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  we  see  but  those 
chapters  in  which  Fate  makes  us  characters.  The 
beginning,  the  end,  the  plot — all  are  beyond  our  ken. 
If  indeed  there  is  a  beginning,  or  end,  or  plot  to  a 
story  one  lives." 

"Every  story  must  have  a  beginning,  a  middle, 
and  an  end,"  began  the  writing  guy,  sonorously. 
"Now  I " 

Just  then  I  leaned  over  and  placed  my  number 
nine  brogan  firmly  upon  that  writing  guy's  kid-clad 
foot,  and  held  him  in  speechless  agony  for  a  mo 
ment,  while  Captain  Shreve  got  his  yarn  fairly 
launched. 


CHAPTER  II 

THEN,  if  I  must  have  a  beginning  for  the 
yarn  (said  Captain  Shreve),  I'll  begin  with 
that  morning,  in  this  very  port  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  when  I  walked  out  of  the  Shipping  Commis 
sioner's  office  with  my  first  A.B.'s  discharge  in  my 
hand,  and  a  twelve  months'  pay-day  jingling  in  my 
pocket.  For  I  must  explain  something  of  my  state 
of  mind  on  that  morning,  so  you  will  understand 
how  I  got  into  Yankee  Swope's  blood-ship. 

It  was  the  heyday  of  the  crimps,  and  I  walked 
through  the  very  heart  of  crimpdom,  along  the  old 
East  street.  It  is  not  a  very  prepossessing  thorough 
fare  even  to-day,  when  it  masquerades  as  the  Embar- 
cadero,  a  sinner  reformed.  In  those  days,  when  it 
was  just  East  street,  it  consisted  of  solid  blocks  of 
ramshackle  frame  buildings,  that  housed  all  the  vari 
eties  of  sharks  and  harpies  who  live  off  Jack  ashore; 
it  was  an  ugly,  dirty,  fascinating  way,  a  street  with 
a  garish,  besotted  face.  But  on  this  morning  it 
seemed  the  most  wonderful  avenue  in  the  world  to 
me.  I  saw  East  street  through  the  colorful  eyes  of 
youth — the  eyes  of  Romance. 

I  stepped  along  with  my  chest  out  and  my  chin 
up-tilted.  A  few  paces  behind  me  a  beachcomber 
wobbled  along  with  my  sea-bag  on  his  shoulder — 

13 


14  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

for  what  A.B.  would  demean  himself  with  such  labor 
on  pay-day,  when  moochers  abounded  at  his  heel! 
I  was  looking  for  a  boarding-house. 

But  it  was  not  the  Sailors'  Home.  That  respec 
table  institution  might  do  very  well  for  boys,  and 
callow  ordinary  seamen,  but  it  certainly  would  not 
do  for  a  newly  made  A.B.  Nor  was  I  looking  for 
Mother  Harrison's  place,  as  I  told  Mother's  run 
ner,  who  stuck  at  my  elbow  for  a  time.  Mother 
Harrison's  was  known  as  the  quietest,  most  orderly 
house  on  the  street;  it  might  do  for  those  quiet  and 
orderly  old  shellbacks  whose  blood  had  been  chilled 
by  age;  but  it  would  never  do  for  a  young  A.B.,  a 
real  man,  who  was  wishful  for  all  the  mad  living 
the  beach  afforded.  No;  I  was  looking  for  the 
Knitting  Swede's. 

Knitting  Swede  Olson!  Remember  him,  Briggs? 
A  fine  hole  for  a  young  fool  to  seek!  But  I 
was  a  man,  remember — a  MAN — and  that  precious 
discharge  proved  it.  I  was  nineteen  years  old,  and 
manhood  bears  a  very  serious  aspect  at  nineteen. 
No  wonder  I  was  holding  my  head  in  the  air.  The 
fellows  in  my  watch  would  listen  to  my  opinions 
with  respect,  now  I  was  an  able  seaman.  No  longer 
would  I  scrub  the  foc'sle  floor  while  the  lazy  beg 
gars  slept.  No  longer  would  I  peggy  week  in  and 
week  out.  I  was  A.B.  at  last;  a  full-fledged  man! 
Of  course,  I  must  straightway  prove  my  manhood; 
so  I  was  bound  for  the  Knitting  Swede's. 

Everybody  knew  the  Knitting  Swede  in  those  days ; 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  15 

every  man  Jack  who  ever  joined  a  ship.  They  told 
of  him  in  New  York,  and  London,  and  Callao,  and 
Singapore,  and  in  every  foc'sle  afloat.  The  king  of 
crimps!  He  sat  in  his  barroom,  in  East  street, 
placidly  knitting  socks  with  four  steel  needles,  and 
as  placidly  ignoring  every  law  of  God  and  man. 
He  ruled  the  'Frisco  waterfront,  did  the  Knitting 
Swede,  and  made  his  power  felt  to  the  very  ends  of 
the  seas. 

Stories  about  him  were  without  number.  It  was 
the  Knitting  Swede  who  shanghaied  the  corpse  on 
board  the  Tarn  oy  Shanter.  It  was  the  Knitting 
Swede  who  drugged  the  skipper  of  the  Sequoia,  and 
shipped  him  in  his  own  foc'sle.  It  was  the  Knitting 
Swede  who  sent  the  crowd  of  cowboys  to  sea  in  the 
Enterprise.  It  was  the  Knitting  Swede  who  was 
the  infamous  hero  of  quite  half  the  dog-watch  yarns. 
It  was  the  Knitting  Swede  who  was — oh,  the  very 
devil! 

And  it  was  on  this  very  account  I  was  bound  for 
the  Swede's  house.  Very  simple,  and  sailorlike,  my 
motive.  In  my  mind's  eye  I  saw  a  scene  which 
would  be  enacted  on  board  my  next  ship.  Some  fel 
low  would  ask  me — as  some  fellow  always  does — 
"And  what  house  did  you  put  up  in,  in  'Frisco, 
Jack?"  And  I  would  take  the  pipe  out  of  my 
mouth,  and  answer  in  a  carefully  careless  voice, 
"Oh,  I  stopped  with  the  Knitting  Swede."  And 
then  the  whole  foc'sle  would  look  at  me  as  one  man, 
and  there  would  be  respect  in  their  eyes.  For  only 


16  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

very  hard  cases  ever  stopped  at  the  Knitting  Swede's. 

Well,  I  found  the  Swede's  place  easily  enough. 
And  he  was  there  in  person  to  welcome  me.  I  dis 
covered  his  appearance  to  be  just  what  the  stories 
described — a  tall,  great  paunched  man,  who  bulked 
gigantic  as  he  perched  on  a  high  stool  at  the  end  of 
the  bar,  a  half-knitted  gray  sock  in  his  hands,  and 
an  air  about  him  of  cow-like  contentment.  He  pos 
sessed  a  mop  of  straw-colored  hair,  and  a  pair  of 
little,  mild,  blue  eyes  that  regarded  one  with  all 
the  innocence  of  a  babe's  stare. 

He  suspended  his  knitting  for  a  moment,  gave  me 
a  fat,  flabby  hand,  and  a  grin  which  disclosed  a 
mouthful  of  yellow  teeth. 

"Ja,  you  koom  for  a  good  time,  and,  by  and  by, 
a  good  ship,"  says  he.  "Yoost  trust  the  Swede — 
he  treat  you  right." 

So  he  sent  my  bag  upstairs  to  a  room,  accepted 
my  money  for  safekeeping,  and  I  set  up  the  drinks 
for  the  house. 

What?  Give  him  my  money  for  safekeeping? 
Of  course.  There  was  a  code  of  honor  even  in 
crimpdom,  you  know.  I  came  to  the  Swede's  house 
of  my  own  choosing;  no  runner  of  his  snared  me 
out  of  a  ship.  Therefore  I  would  be  permitted  to 
spend  the  last  dollar  of  my  pay-day,  chiefly  over  his 
bar,  of  course,  and  when  the  money  was  gone,  he 
would  ship  me  in  a  ship  of  my  own  choosing.  Un 
less,  of  course,  men  were  exceptionally  scarce,  and 
blood  money  exceptionally  high.  Crimpdom  honor 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  17 

wouldn't  stand  much  temptation.  But  I  was  con 
fident  of  my  ability  to  look  after  myself.  I  was  a 
man  of  nineteen,  you  know. 

So,  at  the  Knitting  Swede's  I  was  lodged.  I 
spent  most  of  my  first  day  there  in  examining  and 
getting  acquainted  with  my  fellow  lodgers.  Aye, 
they  were  a  crowd,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  repute 
of  the  house ;  hard  living,  hard  swearing,  hard 
fighting  A.B.'s,  for  the  most  part;  the  unruly  toughs 
of  the  five  oceans.  I  swaggered  amongst  them  and 
thought  myself  a  very  devil  of  a  fellow.  I  bought 
them  drinks  at  the  Swede's  bar,  and  listened  with 
immense  satisfaction  to  their  loud  comments  on  my 
generosity.  It  was,  "He's  a  fine  lad,  and  no  mis 
take  !"  and,  "He's  a  real  proper  bloke,  for  certain!" 
And  I  ordered  up  the  rounds,  and  swung  my  shoul 
ders,  and  felt  like  a  "real  proper  bloke"  indeed. 

Well,  I  saw  one  chap  in  the  house  who  really 
attracted  me.  I  should  liked  to  have  chummed  with 
him,  and  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  be  friendly 
towards  him.  He  was  a  regular  giant  of  a  man, 
with  yellow  hair  and  frosty  eyes,  and  a  very  white 
face.  In  fact  he  looked  as  if  he  might  have  recently 
been  sick,  though  his  huge,  muscular  frame  showed 
no  effects  of  an  illness.  He  had  a  jagged,  bluish 
scar  over  one  eye,  which  traveled  up  his  forehead 
and  disappeared  beneath  his  hair,  plainly  the  result 
of  some  terrible  clout.  But  it  was  not  these  things, 
not  his  face  or  size  which  drew  me  to  him;  it  was 
his  bearing. 


18  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

All  of  the  chaps  in  Swede  Olson's  house  were  hard 
cases.  They  boasted  of  their  hardness.  But  their 
hardness  was  the  typical  tough's  hardness,  nine 
parts  bravado,  a  savagery  not  difficult  to  subdue 
with  an  oak  belaying  pin  in  the  fist  of  a  bucko  mate. 
But  the  hardness  of  this  big,  scar-faced  man  was  of 
a  different  sort.  You  sensed,  immediately  you 
looked  at  him,  that  he  possessed  a  steely  armor  of 
indifference  that  penetrated  to  his  very  heart.  He 
was  a  real  hard  case,  a  proper  nut,  a  fellow  who 
simply  did  not  care  what  happened.  It  was  noth 
ing  he  said  or  did,  but  his  demeanor  declared  plainly 
he  was  utterly  reckless  of  events  or  consequences. 
It  was  amusing  to  observe  how  circumspectly  the 
bullies  of  the  house  walked  while  in  his  neighbor 
hood. 

But  I  found  him  to  be  a  man  of  silent  and  lone 
some  habit,  and  temperate.  He  discouraged  my 
friendly  advance  with  a  cold  indifference,  and  my 
idea  of  chumming  with  him  during  my  pay-day 
"bust"  soon  went  glimmering.  Yet  I  admired  him 
mightily  from  the  moment  I  first  clapped  eyes  upon 
him,  and  endeavored  to  imitate  his  carriage  of  utter 
recklessness  in  my  own  strutting. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  talk  in  the  Swede's  house  was  all  of 
drink  and  women  and  ships.  I  was  too  young 
and  clean  to  find  much  enjoyment  in  too  much 
of  the  first  two;  much  liquor  made  me  sick,  and  I 
did  not  find  the  painted  Jezebels  of  sailor-town 
attractive.  But  ships  were  my  life,  and  I  lent  a 
ready  ear  to  the  gossip  about  them.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  didn't  enjoy  the  Knitting  Swede's  place  very 
much.  I  did  so  want  to  be  a  hard  case,  and  I  guess 
I  was  a  pretty  hard  case,  but  I  didn't  like  the  other 
hard  cases.  Youth  likes  companionship,  but  I  didn't 
want  to  chum  with  that  gang,  willing  though  most 
of  them  were  that  I  permit  them  to  help  me  spend 
my  money.  I  hadn't  been  ashore  twenty-four  hours 
before  I  found  myself  wishing  for  a  clean  breeze 
and  blue  water. 

Shipping  was  brisk  in  the  port,  and  I  discovered 
I  would  have  no  trouble  in  picking  my  ship  when  my 
money  was  gone.  The  Enterprise  was  loading  for 
Boston;  the  Glory  of  the  Seas  would  sail  within  the 
fortnight  for  the  United  Kingdom;  there  were  a 
half-dozen  other  smart  ships  wishing  to  be  manned 
by  smart  lads.  I  had  nothing  to  worry  about.  I 
could  blow  my  pay-day  as  quickly  as  I  liked;  there 
was  no  danger  of  my  being  stranded  "on  the  beach." 

19 


20  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

So  I  spent  my  money,  as  violently  as  possible.  I 
made  a  noise  in  the  Swede's  house,  and  was  proud 
of  myself.  My  first  A.B.'s  spree! 

On  the  third  evening  of  my  "bust,"  my  mettle  was 
tested.  There  was  a  woman  in  the  Swede's  house,  a 
slim  wisp  of  a  little  Jewess,  with  the  sweet  face  of 
a  Madonna  and  the  eyes  of  a  wanton.  Well — she 
smiled  on  me.  She  had  good  *  £ason  to;  was  I  not 
making  my  gold  pieces  dance  a  merry  tune?  Was  I 
not  fair  game  for  any  huntress? 

But  she  belonged  to  the  Swede's  chief  runner,  his 
number  one  bouncer,  as  ugly  a  brute  as  ever 
thumped  a  drunken  sailor.  The  bully  objected,  with 
a  deal  of  obscene  threatening,  to  my  fancied  raiding 
of  his  property.  We  had  it  out  with  bare  knuckles 
in  the  Swede's  big  back  room,  with  all  the  little 
tables  pushed  against  the  wall  to  make  fighting 
space,  and  the  toughest  crowd  in  San  Francisco 
standing  by  to  see  fair  play.  I  was  the  younger,  and 
as  hard  as  nails,  he  was  soft  and  rotten  with  evil 
living,  so  I  thrashed  him  soundly  enough  in  five 
rounds. 

After  he  had  taken  the  count,  I  turned  away  and 
commenced  to  pull  my  shirt  on  over  my  head.  I 
heard  a  sharp  curse,  a  yell  of  pain,  and  the  clatter 
of  steel  upon  the  floor.  When  my  head  emerged,  I 
beheld  my  late  antagonist  slinking  away  before  the 
threatening  figure  of  the  man  with  the  scar.  The 
bully's  right  arm  dangled  by  his  side,  limp  and 
broken,  and  a  sheath-knife  was  lying  on  the  floor, 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  21 

at  the  big  man's  feet.  The  sight  gave  me  a  rather 
sick  feeling  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  for  I  realized 
I  had  narrowly  escaped  being  knifed. 

The  scar-faced  man  would  not  listen  to  my  thanks. 
He  bestowed  upon  me  a  cool,  bracing  glance,  and 
remarked,  uYou  must  never  take  your  eyes  off  one 
of  that  breed!"  Then  he  resumed  his  seat  at  a 
table  in  the  far  cornr  of  the  room,  and  quite  plainly 
dismissed  the  incident  from  his  mind. 

Indeed,  the  house  as  speedily  dismissed  the  inci 
dent  from  its  collective  mind.  A  fist  fight  or  a 
knifing  was  but  a  momentary  diversion  in  the  Swede's 
place.  Five  minutes  after  he  left  the  room,  the 
whipped  bully  left  the  establishment,  his  one  good 
hand  carrying  his  duffle.  The  Knitting  Swede  would 
have  no  whipped  bouncer  in  his  employ. 

That  was  a  purple  night  for  me.  I  was  the  victor, 
and  the  fruits  of  the  victory  were  very  sweet.  The 
Jewess  murmured  adoring  flatteries  in  my  ear.  The 
others — that  crowd  of  rough,  tough  men — clapped 
me  respectfully  upon  the  back,  felt  gingerly  of  my 
biceps,  and  swore  loudly  and  luridly  I  was  the  best 
man  in  the  port.  I  agreed  with  them — and  set  up 
the  drinks,  again  and  again.  Oh,  I  was  a  great 
man  that  night !  The  house  caroused  at  my  expense 
till  late. 

Only  my  silent  friend  in  the  corner  declined  to 
take  part  in  the  merry-making.  The  man  with  the 
scar  sat  alone,  drinking  nothing,  and  regarding  with 
cool  and  visible  contempt  the  dizzy  gyrations  of  the 


22  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

roughs  who  were  swilling  away  the  money  I  had 
worked  for.  But  his  open  contempt  of  them  was 
not  resented,  even  at  the  height  of  the  orgy.  They 
were  hard  cases,  rough,  tough  fighting  men,  but 
they  gave  the  big  fellow  plenty  of  sea-room.  No 
ruffling  or  swaggering  in  his  direction.  No  gibes  or 
practical  jokes.  The  bludgeon-like  wit  of  the  house 
very  carefully  passed  him  by.  For  he  was  so  plainly 
a  desperate  man. 

uHe's  a  bad  one,"  whispered  the  Jewess  to  me, 
lifting  an  eye  towards  the  lonely  table.  "He  has 
the  house  bluffed.  Bet  you  the  Swede  doesn't  try 
any  of  his  tricks  with  him.  He's  a  real  bad  one. 
Wonder  who  he  is?" 

I  openly  admired  the  man.  I'd  have  given  my 
soul  almost  to  own  his  manner.  The  careless  yet 
grand  air  of  the  man,  the  something  about  him  that 
lifted  him  above  the  rest  of  us — aye,  he  was  the  real 
hero,  he  was  the  sort  of  hard  case  I  wanted  to  be. 

"I  know  he's  a  sailorman  by  the  cut  of  his  jib," 
I  said.  "But  he  is  so  pale — and  that  scar — I  guess 
he  is  just  out  of  the  hospital.  Been  sick,  or  hurt, 
most  likely." 

The  woman  gave  me  a  pitying  look  that  set  my 
teeth  on  edge.  She  was  continually  marveling  over 
my  innocence,  and  I  didn't  relish  being  innocent. 
"Just  out  of  hospital!"  she  mocked.  "You  cer 
tainly  haven't  been  around  places  like  this  very 
much  or  you  would  know." 

"Know  what?"  I  demanded. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  23 

She  shook  her  head,  and  looked  serious.  "No,  I'll 
not  preach,  not  even  to  you.  And  I  like  him — 
because  he  saved  you." 

Next  morning  the  Swede  interrupted  his  knitting 
long  enough  to  toss  my  last  ten  dollars  across  the 
bar.  "Ay  tank  you  ship  now?"  says  he. 

The  huskies  who  were  gathered  about  the  room 
immediately  chorused  their  disapproval.  "Oh,  give 
the  poor  beggar  a  chance!"  they  sang  out.  "Let 
him  rest  up  a  spell,  Swede!"  But  the  Swede  had 
gauged  me  correctly.  He  knew  I  would  not  want 
to  stay  on  the  beach  after  my  money  was  spent. 

"I  am  ready  to  ship,"  I  told  him,  "but,  remem 
ber  this,  Swede,  in  a  ship  of  my  own  choosing." 

He  grinned  widely,  and  showed  his  whole  mouth 
ful  of  yellow  teeth.  His  baby  stare  rested  appre 
ciatively  upon  me,  as  though  I  had  just  cracked  an 
excellent  joke.  "Oh,  }ay  you  pick  him  yourself," 
he  chortled.  "Mineself  get  you  good  ship,  easy 
ship.  No  bucko,  no  hardtack,  good  pay,  soft  time, 
by  Yimminy!" 

His  mirthful  humor  abruptly  vanished.  He 
leaned  towards  me,  and  the  lids  of  his  little  round 
eyes  slowly  lifted.  It  was  like  the  lifting  of  cur 
tains.  For  an  instant  I  looked  into  the  unplumbed 
abyss  of  the  man's  soul,  and  I  felt  the  full  impact 
of  his  ruthless,  powerful  mind.  It  was  an  astonish 
ing  revelation  of  character,  that  glance.  I  think 
the  Swede  designed  it  so,  for  he  was  about  to  make 
me  a  momentous  offer. 


24  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Ay  ship  you  by  easy  ship,  shore-going  ship.  No 
vatch,  no  heavy  veather,  good  times,  ja.  You 
thump  mine  roonar,  you  take  his  voomans,  so — you 
take  his  yob.  Ja?  You  ship  by  the  Knitting 
Swede?'1 

The  eyelids  drooped,  and  his  gaze  was  again  one 
of  infantile  innocence.  His  fat  smooth  jowls  quiv 
ered,  as  he  waited  with  an  expectant  smile  for  my 
answer. 

I'll  admit  I  was  completely  bowled  over  for  a 
moment.  A  hush  had  fallen  upon  the  room.  I 
heard  a  voice  behind  me  exclaim  softly  and  bitterly, 
"Gaw'  blimme,  Vs  got  it!"  I  knew  the  voice  be 
longed  to  a  big  Cockney  who  was,  himself,  an 
avowed  candidate  for  the  runner's  job.  My  mind 
was  filled  with  confused,  tingling  thoughts.  Oh,  I 
was  a  man,  right  enough,  to  be  singled  out  by  the 
Knitting  Swede  for  his  chief  lieutenancy.  I  was 
a  hard  case,  a  proper  nut,  to  have  that  honor  offered 
me.  For  it  was  an  honor  in  sailordom.  I  thought 
of  the  foc'sles  to  come,  and  my  shipmates  pointing 
me  out  most  respectfully  as  the  fighting  bloke  who 
had  been  offered  a  chief  runner's  berth  by  the  Knit 
ting  Swede. 

For  I  did  not  doubt  there  would  be  other  foc'sles, 
and  soon.  Life  ashore  at  the  Knitting  Swede's  was 
not  for  me.  Young  fool,  I  was,  with  all  the  conceit 
of  my  years  and  inches.  Yet  I  realized  clearly 
enough  I  would  only  be  happy  with  the  feel  of  a  deck 
beneath  my  feet,  and  the  breath  of  open  water  in  my 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  25 

nostrils.  I  was  of  the  sea,  and  for  the  sea.  And 
if  anything  were  needed  to  make  my  decision  more 
certain,  there  was  the  little  Jewess.  She  leaned 
close,  and  there  was  more  than  a  hint  of  command  in 
her  voice.  "Boy,  say  yes!  I  want  you  to,  Boy!" 

"Boy!"  To  me,  a  nineteen-year-old  man,  who 
had  just  been  offered  a  fighting  man's  berth!  "I 
want  you  to,"  she  commanded.  I  saw  more  clearly 
just  what  the  Swede's  offer  meant:  to  spend  my  days 
in  evil  living,  my  drugged  will  twisted  about  the 
slim,  dishonest  fingers  of  the  wanton;  to  spend  my 
nights  carrying  out  whatever  black  rascality  the 
Swede  might  command.  An  ignoble  slavery.  Not 
for  me! 

"I'll  only  ship  in  a  proper  ship,  Swede,"  I  said, 
decisively. 

The  Swede  nodded.  My  refusal  did  not  discon 
cert  him;  I  think  his  insight  had  prepared  him  for 
it.  But  the  tension  in  the  room  released  with  a  loud 
gasp  of  astonishment.  It  was  unbelievable  to  those 
bullies  that  such  an  offer  could  be  turned  down.  A 
sailorman  refusing  unlimited  opportunities  for  get 
ting  drunk!  "Gaw'  strike  me  blind,  'e  arn't  got  the 
guts  for  hit!"  a  voice  cried  at  my  elbow,  and  I 
found  the  Cockney  openly  sneering  into  my  face. 

I  saw  through  his  motive  immediately.  Cockney 
wanted  the  job,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  allow  the 
Swede  to  overlook  his  peculiar  qualifications  a  sec 
ond  time.  Therefore,  he  would  risk  battle  with  me. 

I  was  nothing  loath.    I  might  turn  down  the  job, 


26  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

but  I  would  not  turn  down  a  challenge.  I  stepped 
back,  and  my  coat  was  already  on  the  floor  by  the 
time  the  Swede  had  a  chance  to  form  his  words. 
And  his  words  showed  him  also  cognizant  of  the 
Cockney's  ruse. 

'Vast  there,  Cocky!  Ay  give  you  the  yob.  No 
need  to  fight,  and  get  smashed  sick.  To-night  I  got 
vork — to  put  the  crew  by  the-  Golden  Bough!" 

The  Cockney's  hostility  melted  into  a  satisfied 
smirk.  He  called  upon  his  Maker  with  many  blas 
phemies  while  he  assured  the  Swede  he  was  the  very 
"proper  blushin'  bloke"  for  the  berth.  The  crowd 
straightway  lost  all  interest  in  the  runnership;  they 
had  another  sensation  to  occupy  them.  At  the 
Swede's  words,  a  low  growl  ran  around  the  room, 
a  growl  which  swelled  into  a  chorus  of  impreca 
tions. 

The  Swede  was  going  to  ship  the  crew  for  the 
Golden  Bough  that  night  1  That  meant  he  needed 
sailors.  And  every  man  who  was  in  debt  to  the 
Swede,  or  in  any  way  under  his  thumb  (and  I  sus 
pect  every  man  Jack  of  them  was  under  his  thumb 
in  some  fashion  or  other),  quaked  in  his  boots,  and 
thought,  "Will  the  Swede  choose  me?"  For  they 
knew  ships,  those  men,  and  they  knew  the  Golden 
Bough.  Some  of  them  had  sailed  in  her. 

The  Swede  grinned  jocosely  at  me.  "How  you 
like  to  ship  by  the  Golden  Bough?  There  ban  easy 
ship,  Jaf  Plenty  grub,  easy  vork,  good  mates " 

"Yah-h-h!"     One  swelling,  jeering  shout  from 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  27 

the  whole  crowd  submerged  the  Swede's  joking  ref 
erence. 

"Plenty  to  eat!"  yelled  one.  "Aye,  plenty  o' 
belaying-pin  soup,  an'  knuckle-duster  hash  I" 

"Easy  work!"  sang  out  another.  "In  your  watch 
below,  which  never  happens!" 

"Proper  gents,  the  mates  are,"  spoke  up  a  third. 
"They  eats  a  sailorman  every  mornin'  for  break 
fast!" 

Oh,  they  knew  the  Golden  Bough!  Who  did 
not? 

"How  many,  Swede?"  called  out  a  man. 

"Ay  ban  ship  a  crowd  of  stiffs — and  some  sailor- 
mans,"  stated  the  Swede. 

Cursing  broke  out  afresh.  Some  of  them  must 
go !  The  bulk  of  the  crew  was  to  be  crimped,  of 
course,  in  the  Swede  knew  what  kennels  of  the  town. 
But  a  few  tried  sailormen  must  go  to  leaven  that 
sodden,  sea-ignorant  lump.  It  was  like  condemning 
men  to  penal  servitude.  No  wonder  they  swore. 
And  swear  they  did,  with  mouth-filling,  curdling 
oaths,  as  though  in  vain  hope  their  flaming  words 
would  quite  consume  that  evilly  known  vessel. 

In  the  midst  of  that  bedlam  I  stood  thinking 
strange  thoughts.  It  is  hardly  credible,  but  I  was 
considering  if  I  should  tell  the  Swede  I  would  ship 
in  the  Golden  Bough.  And  I  had  heard  all  about 
the  ship,  too,  for  if  the  Knitting  Swede  was  the  hero 
of  half  the  dog-watch  yarns,  the  Golden  Bough  was 
the  heroine  of  the  other  half.  I  knew  of  the  ship, 


28  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

the  most  notorious  blood-ship  afloat,  and  the  queen 
of  all  the  speedy  clippers.  I  knew  of  her  captain, 
the  black-hearted,  silky-voiced  Yankee  Swope,  who 
boasted  he  never  had  to  pay  off  a  crew;  I  knew  of 
her  two  mates,  Fitzgibbon  and  Lynch,  who  each 
boasted  he  could  polish  off  a  watch  single-handed, 
and  lived  up  to  his  boast.  I  knew  of  the  famous, 
blood-specked  passages  the  ship  had  made;  of  the 
cruel,  bruising  life  the  foremast  hands  led  in  her. 
And  I  stood  before  the  Swede's  bar  and  considered 
shipping.  Oh,  Youth! 

For  my  thoughts  were  fathered  by  the  vaulting 
conceit  of  my  nineteen  years.  Consider  ...  a  few 
days  before  I  had  for  the  first  time  assumed  a  man's 
estate  in  sailordom.  Already  I  was  a  marked  man. 
Had  I  not  stopped  at  the  Knitting  Swede's,  and 
ruffled  on  equality  with  the  hard  cases?  Had  I  not 
whipped  the  bully  of  the  beach?  Had  I  not  been 
offered  a  fighting  man's  billet  by  the  Swede,  himself? 
Was  not  that  glory? 

Then  how  much  greater  the  glory  if  I  spoke  up 
with  a  devil-may-care  lilt  in  my  voice,  and  shipped 
in  the  hottest  packet  afloat !  Glory ! — why,  I  would 
be  the  unquestioned  cock  of  any  foc'sle  I  afterward 
happened  into.  You  know,  in  those  days  the  ambi 
tious  young  lads  regularly  shipped  in  the  hot  clip 
pers;  it  was  a  postgraduate  course  in  seamanship, 
and  accomplishment  of  such  a  voyage  gave  one  a 
standing  with  his  fellows.  I  had  intended  going  in 
one — in  the  Enterprise,  or  the  Glory  of  the  Seas, 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  29 

both  loading  in  port.  But  the  Golden  Bough!  No 
man  shipped  in  her,  sober,  and  unafraid.  If  I 
shipped,  I  should  be  famous  the  world  around  as 
the  fellow  who  feared  neither  God,  nor  Devil,  nor 
Yankee  Swope  and  his  bucko  mates ! 

So  I  stood  there,  half  wishful,  half  afraid,  deaf 
to  all  save  my  own  swirling  thoughts.  And  there 
happened  that  which  gave  me  my  decision. 

It  was  the  man  with  the  scar.  He  had  been 
lounging  against  the  bar,  an  uninterested  spectator 
of  the  bestowing  of  the  runnership.  Now,  my  eyes 
fell  upon  him,  and  I  saw  to  my  surprise  that  he 
was  shaken  out  of  his  careless  humor.  He  was 
standing  tensely  on  the  balls  of  his  feet,  and  his 
hands  were  gripping  the  bar  rail  so  fiercely  his 
fingers  seemed  white  and  bloodless.  It  was  apparent 
some  stern  emotion  wrestled  him;  the  profile  I  saw 
was  set  like  chiseled  marble.  There  was  something 
indescribably  menacing  in  his  poise.  The  sight  of 
him  jolted  my  ears  open  to  the  noises  of  the  room. 

The  crowd  was  still  talking  about  the  Golden 
Bough.  And  the  talk  had  progressed,  as  talk  of 
the  Golden  Bough  always  progressed,  from  skipper 
and  mates,  to  the  lady.  They  spoke  of  the  ship's 
mystery,  of  the  Captain's  lady.  She  was  a  char 
acter  to  pique  a  sailorman's  interest,  the  Lady  of  the 
Golden  Bough.  Her  fame  was  as  wide,  and  much 
sweeter,  than  the  vessel's.  With  all  their  toughs' 
frankness,  the  crowd  were  discussing  the  lady's 
puzzling  relations  with  Swope. 


30  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Uncommon  queer,  I  calls  it,"  said  one  chap, 
who  had  sailed  in  the  ship.  "They  call  'em  man  an' 
wife,  but  she  lives  to  port,  an'  he  to  starboard. 
Separate  cabins,  dash  me!  I  had  it  from  the  cabin 
boy.  They  even  eats  separate.  .  .  .  He's  nasty  to 
her — I've  heard  the  devil  snarl  at  her  more  than 
once,  when  I've  had  a  wheel.  .  .  .  Blank  me,  she's  a 
blessed  angel.  There  was  I  with  a  sprained  wrist 
big  as  my  blanked  head,  an'  Lynch  a-hazin'  me  to 
work — and  every  morning  she  trips  into  the  foc'sle 
with  her  bright  cheer  an'  her  linaments.  A  blanked, 
blessed  angel,  she  is  I" 

"He  beats  her,"  supplemented  another  man.  "I 
got  it  from  a  mate  what  chummed  with  the  bloke  as 
was  a  Sails  on  her  one  voyage.  He  said,  that  sail- 
maker  did,  as  how  Swope  got  drunk,  and  beat  her." 

The  big  Cockney,  who  had  been  visibly  possessed 
by  a  pompous  self-importance  since  his  elevation 
to  the  dignity  of  runner,  saw  fit  to  interpose  his 
contrary  opinion  of  the  Lady  of  the  Golden 
Bough.  Because  the  man  was  vile,  his  words  were 
vile. 

"Blimme,  yer  needn't  worrit  abaht  Yankee 
Swope's  lydy,  as  yer  call  'er.  She  arn't  nah  bleedin' 
lydy — she's  just  a  blarsted  Judy.  Yer  got  to  knock 
a  Judy  abaht,  arn't  yer?  Hi  'arve  hit  straight — 'e 
picked  'er  hoff  the  streets " 

The  man  with  the  scar  wheeled  on  his  heel, 
reached  out,  and  grasped  the  Cockney  by  his  two 
wrists.  I  exclaimed  aloud  when  I  saw  the  man's 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  31 

full  face.  There  was  death  in  it.  He  spoke  to 
Cockney  in  a  voice  of  cold  fury.  "You  lie  1"  he  cried. 
"Say  you  lie!" 

Cockney  was  a  big  man,  and  husky.  He  cursed, 
and  struggled.  But  he  was  a  child  in  the  grasp  of 
that  white-faced  giant  towering  over  him.  The 
hands  I  had  seen  gripping  the  rail  a  moment  before, 
now  gripped  Cockney's  wrists  in  the  same  terrible 
clutch.  They  squeezed,  as  though  to  crush  the  very 
bones.  Cockney  squirmed,  and  whimpered,  then  he 
broke  down,  and  screamed  in  agony. 

uOw,  Gaw'  blimme,  let  hup !  Hi  never  meant 
northin' !  A  lie —  Ow,  yuss — a  lie !  She's  a  proper 
lydy —  Hi  never  'eard  the  hother —  Gaw'  strike  me 
blind!" 

The  man  with  the  scar  cast  the  fellow  contemptu 
ously  away ;  and  Cockney  lost  no  time  in  putting  the 
distance  of  the  room  between  them.  The  big  man 
turned  on  the  Swede,  and  his  voice  was  sharp  and 
commanding. 

"Swede,  does  the  Golden  Bough  sail  to-morrow?" 

"Ja,  with  da  flood,"  the  Swede  answered. 

"Then  I  ship  in  her,"  declared  the  man.  "I  ship 
in  the  Golden  Bough,  Swede!" 

It  was  the  spark  needed  to  fire  my  own  resolu 
tion.  What  another  dared,  I  would  dare.  I 
thumped  the  bar  with  my  fist  and  sang  out  valor- 
ousiy,  "I  ship  in  her  too,  Swede!" 

The  Swede's  needles  stopped  flashing  in  and  out 
of  the  gray  yarn.  He  regarded  us,  one  after  the 


32  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

other,  with  his  baby  stare.  Then  he  said  to  the  big 
man,  "Vat  if  your  frients  ship  by  her?" 

"I  have  no  friends,"  was  the  curt  answer. 

The  Swede  leaned  back  on  his  stool,  and  his  big 
belly  quivered  with  his  wheezy  laughter.  "By  Yim- 
miny,  Ay  tank  da  Golden  Bough  haf  vun  lively 
voyage!"  he  exclaimed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WE    signed    articles    in    the    Swede's    house, 
almost  within  the  hour.     A  little  man  with 
a   pimply,   bulbous   nose    appeared   in    the 
house;  he  carried  in  his  person  the   authority  of 
Shipping  Commissioner  and  in  his  hand  the  articles 
of  the  Golden  Bough.     After  the  careless  fashion 
of  the  day  and  port  we  signed  on  without  further 
ado  for  a  voyage  to  Hong  Kong  and  beyond — sit 
ting  at  a  table  in  the  back  room,  and  cementing  the 
contract  with  a  drink  around. 

The  Shipping  Commissioner  made  the  usual  pre 
tense  of  reading  the  articles.  Then  he  squinted  up 
at  us. 

"What's  yer  John  Henry's?"  says  he. 

My  big  shipmate  mused  a  moment.  He  stroked 
the  scar  on  his  forehead — a  habit  he  had  when 
thinking.  He  smiled. 

uMy  name  is  Newman,"  he  made  answer.  "It  is 
a  good  name." 

He  took  the  pen  from  the  Shipping  Commis 
sioner's  hand  and  wrote  the  name  in  the  proper 
place  upon  the  articles.  "A.  Newman,"  that  is  how 
he  wrote  it.  Not  the  first  time  he  had  clapped  eyes 
upon  ship's  articles,  one  could  see  with  half  an  eye. 
I  wrote  my  own  "John  Shreve"  below  his  name, 

33 


34  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

with  an  outward  flourish,  but  with  a  sinking  sensa 
tion  inwardly. 

As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  completed,  A.  New 
man  got  to  his  feet,  refused  my  pressing  invitation 
to  visit  the  bar,  and  went  upstairs  to  his  room. 
Now,  this  seemed  very  peculiar  to  my  sailor's  way 
of  thinking;  it  seemed  more  peculiar  than  his  choice 
of  a  name.  Here  we  were,  shipmates,  together 
committed  to  a  high  adventure,  yet  the  man  would 
not  tarry  by  my  side  long  enough  to  up-end  a 
schooner  to  a  fair  passage.  I  was  to  have  other  sur 
prises  before  the  day  was  out — the  mean-faced 
beggar,  and  the  way  in  which  the  Knitting  Swede 
put  us  on  board  the  Golden  Bough.  Surprising 
incidents.  But  this  refusal  of  my  new  shipmate  to 
drink  with  me  was  most  surprising.  Think  of  a 
sailor,  a  hard  case,  too,  moping  alone  in  his  room 
on  the  day  he  shipped,  when  downstairs  he  could 
wassail  away  the  day.  I  was  surprised  and  resent 
ful.  It  is  hard  for  a  nineteen-year-old  man  to  stand 
alone,  and  I  felt  that  Newman,  my  shipmate,  should 
give  me  the  moral  support  of  his  companionship. 

I  strutted  away  the  day  in  lonely  glory.  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  violate  the  hoary  traditions  of  the 
foc'sle  and  join  my  ship  sober,  so  I  imbibed  as 
steadily  as  my  youthful  stomach  permitted.  To 
wards  evening  I  was,  as  sailors  say,  "half  seas 


over." 


I  was  mellow,  but  not  befuddled.     I  saw  things 
clearly,  too  clearly.     Of  a  sudden  I  felt  an  urgent 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  35 

necessity  to  get  away  from  the  Swede's  barroom.  I 
wanted  to  breathe  a  bit  of  fresh  air,  I  wanted  to 
shut  out  from  my  mind  the  sights  and  sounds  and 
smells  of  the  groggery,  the  reek  and  the  smut  and 
the  evil  faces.  Above  all,  I  wished  to  escape  the 
importunities  of  the  little  Jewess.  She  had  gotten 
upon  my  nerves.  Oh,  I  was  her  fancy  boy  to-day, 
you  bet!  I  was  spending  my  advance  money,  you 
see,  and  this  was  her  last  chance  at  my  pocketbook. 

So,  when  opportunity  offered,  I  slipped  away  from 
the  crowd  unobserved,  and  went  rolling  along  East 
street  as  though  that  thoroughfare  belonged  to  me. 
And  in  truth  it  did.  Aye,  I  was  the  chesty  lad,  and 
my  step  was  high  and  proud,  during  that  stroll.  For 
men  hailed  me,  and  pointed  me  out.  I  was  the  rough, 
tough  king  of  the  beach  that  hour;  I  was  the  lad 
who  had  whipped  the  Knitting  Swede's  bully,  and 
shipped  in  the  Golden  Bough. 

Upon  a  corner,  some  blocks  from  the  Knitting 
Swede's  house,  I  came  upon  a  fellow  who  was  spit 
ting  blood  into  the  gutter.  He  was  the  sorriest- 
looking  wretch  I  had  ever  seen,  the  gaunt  ruin  of  a 
man.  He  drew  his  filthy  rags  about  him,  and 
shivered,  and  prefaced  his  whine  for  alms  with  a 
fit  of  coughing  that  seemed  to  make  his  bones 
rattle. 

I  can't  say  that  my  heart  went  out  to  the  man.  It 
didn't.  He  was  too  unwholesome  looking,  and  his 
face  was  mean  and  sly.  His  voice  was  as  remark 
able  as  anything  about  him;  instead  of  speaking 


36  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

words,  he  whined  them,  through  his  nose  it  sounded 
like,  and  though  his  tone  seemed  pitched  low,  his 
whine  cut  through  the  East  street  uproar  like  a 
sharp  knife  through  butter. 

Well,  he  was  a  pitiful  wreck.  On  the  rocks  for 
good,  already  breaking  up  and  going  to  pieces. 
Without  thinking  much  about  it,  I  emptied  my  pock 
ets  of  their  change.  He  pounced  upon  that  hand 
ful  of  silver  with  the  avidity  of  a  miser,  and  slob 
bered  nasal  thanks  at  me.  I  was  the  kindest-hearted 
lad  he  had  met  in  many  a  day,  he  said. 

We  would  have  gone  our  different  ways  promptly 
but  for  a  flurry  of  wind.  I  suspect  that,  with  the 
money  in  his  hand,  he  was  as  eager  to  see  the  last  of 
me  as  I  was  to  see  the  last  of  him.  But  I  felt 
ashamed  of  my  distaste  of  him;  it  seemed  heartless. 
And  when  the  cold  wind  came  swooping  across  from 
the  docks,  setting  him  shivering  and  coughing,  I 
thought  of  the  spare  pea-coat  I  had  in  my  bag.  It 
was  serviceable  and  warm,  and  I  had  a  new  one  to 
wear. 

So  I  carried  him  back  to  the  Swede's  house  with 
me.  I  did  not  take  him  into  the  barroom,  though 
he  brazenly  hinted  he  would  like  to  stop  in  there; 
but  I  feared  the  gibes  of  the  boisterous  gang.  This 
bum  of  mine  was  such  grotesque  horror  that  the 
drunken  wits  of  the  house  would  not,  I  knew,  fail 
to  seize  the  chance  to  ridicule  me  upon  my  choice  of 
a  chum.  Besides  it  was  clothes  not  whisky  I  intended 
giving  him. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  37 

I  took  him  upstairs  by  the  side  entrance,  the  en 
trance  to  the  lodging-house  section  of  the  Knitting 
Swede's  establishment.  The  house  was  a  veritable 
rookery  above  the  first  floor.  I  lodged  on  the  third 
floor,  in  a  room  overlooking  the  street,  a  shabby, 
dirty  little  cubicle,  but  one  of  the  choice  rooms  at 
the  Swede's  disposal — for  was  I  not  spending  money 
in  his  house? 

My  companion's  complaining  whine  filled  the  halls 
as  we  ascended  the  stairs.  He  was  damning  the 
times  and  the  hard  hearts  of  men.  As  we  walked 
along  the  hall  towards  my  room,  the  door  of  the 
room  next  to  mine  opened  and  the  big  man,  who 
signed  himself  Newman,  looked  out  at  us.  I  had 
not  known  before  that  he  occupied  this  room,  he 
was  so  silent  and  secretive  in  his  comings  and  goings. 

I  hailed  Newman  heartily,  but  he  gave  me  no 
response,  not  even  a  direct  glance.  He  was  regard 
ing  the  derelict;  aye,  and  there  was  something  in  his 
face  as  he  looked  at  the  man  that  sent  a  thrill 
through  me.  There  was  recognition  in  his  look,  and 
something  else.  It  made  me  shiver.  As  for  this 
fellow  with  me — he  stopped  short  at  first  sight  of 
Newman.  He  said,  "Oh,  my  God!"  and  then  he 
seemed  to  choke.  He  stumbled  against  the  banisters, 
and  clung  to  them  for  support  while  his  knees  sagged 
under  him.  He'd  have  run,  undoubtedly,  if  he  had 
had  the  strength. 

"Hello,  Beasley,"  said  Newman,  in  a  very  quiet 
voice.  He  came  out  of  his  room,  and  approached 


38  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

us.  Then  this  man  of  mine  threw  a  fit  indeed.  I 
never  saw  such  fright  in  a  man's  face.  He  opened 
his  mouth  as  if  to  scream,  but  nothing  came  out  ex 
cept  a  gurgle;  and  he  lifted  his  arm  as  if  to  ward 
off  an  expected  blow. 

But  Newman  made  no  move  to  strike  him.  He 
looked  down  at  him,  studying  him,  with  his  stern 
mouth  cracked  into  a  little  smile  (but,  God's  truth, 
there  was  no  mirth  in  it)  and  after  a  moment  he 
said,  "Surprised?  Eh?  But  no  more  surprised 
than  I." 

The  poor  wreck  got  some  sound  out  of  his  mouth 
that  sounded  like  "How — how — "  several  times 
repeated. 

"And  I  wanted  to  meet  you  more  than  I  can  tell," 
went  on  Newman.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you — = 
about " 

The  other  got  his  tongue  to  working  in  a  half- 
coherent  fashion,  though  the  disjointed  words  he 
forced  out  of  his  mouth  were  just  husky  whispers. 
"Oh,  my  God — you!  Not  me — oh,  my  God,  not 
me! — him — he  made  me — it  was " 

No  more  sense  than  that  to  his  agonized  mum 
bling.  And  he  got  no  more  than  that  out  of  him 
when  he  choked,  and  an  ugly  splotch  of  crimson  ap 
peared  upon  his  pale  lips.  His  knees  gave  way  alto 
gether,  and  he  crouched  there  on  the  floor,  gibbering 
silently  at  the  big  man,  and  plainly  terrified  clean  out 
of  his  wits. 

Well,  I  felt  out  of  it,  so  to  speak.     The  feeling 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  39 

made  me  a  little  resentful.  After  all,  this  bum  was 
my  bum. 

"Look  here,  the  man's  sick,"  I  said  to  Newman. 
"Don't  look  at  him  like  that — he'll  die.  You've 
half  scared  him  to  death  already." 

"Oh,  no;  he'll  not  die — yet,"  said  Newman. 
"He's  just  a  little  bit  surprised  at  the  encounter. 
But  he's  glad  to  see  me — aren't  you,  Beasley  ?  Stop 
that  nonsense,  and  get  up!"  This  last  was  barked 
at  the  fellow;  it  was  a  soft-voiced  but  imperative 
command. 

The  command  was  instantly  obeyed.  That  was 
Newman  for  you — people  didn't  argue  with  him, 
they  did  what  he  said.  I'd  have  obeyed  too,  just  as 
quickly,  if  he  had  spoken  to  me  in  that  tone.  There 
was  something  in  that  man,  something  compelling, 
and,  besides,  he  had  the  habit  of  command  in  his 
manner. 

So  Beasley  tottered  to  his  feet,  and  stood  there 
swaying.  He  found  his  tongue,  too,4  in  sensible 
speech.  "For  God's  sake,  get  me  a  drink!"  he  said. 

I  was  glad  to  seize  the  cue.  It  gave  me  an  ex 
cuse  to  do  something. 

"I'll  get  some  whisky  downstairs,"  I  sang  out 
to  Newman,  as  I  moved  for  the  stairs.  "Take  him 
into  my  room;  I'll  be  right  back." 

But  when  I  returned  with  the  liquor  a  few  mo 
ments  later,  I  discovered  that  Newman  had  taken 
his  prize  into  his  own  room.  I  heard  the  murmur 
of  voices  through  the  closed  door.  But  I  had  rather 


40  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

expected  this.  Half  seas  over  I  might  be,  but  I 
was  still  clear-witted  enough  to  realize  that  I  had 
accidentally  brought  two  old  acquaintances  to 
gether,  and  that  one  was  pleased  at  the  meeting  and 
the  other  terrified,  and  that  whatever  was  or  had 
been  between  the  two  was  none  of  my  business.  I 
had  no  intention  of  intruding  upon  them.  But  the 
fellow,  Beasley,  had  looked  so  much  in  need  of  the 
stimulant  that  I  ventured  a  knock  upon  the  door. 

Newman  opened,  and  I  handed  him  the  bottle 
without  comment.  I  could  see  my  erstwhile  tow 
sitting  upon  the  bed,  slumped  in  an  attitude  of  col 
lapse.  He  looked  so  abject ;  his  condition  might  have 
touched  a  harder  heart  than  mine.  But  there  was 
no  softening  of  Newman's  heart,  to  judge  from  his 
face;  the  little  mirthless  smile  had  vanished  and  his 
features  were  hard  and  set.  Aye,  and  his  manner 
towards  me  was  curt  enough. 

"Thank  you;  he  needs  a  pick-me-up,"  he  said,  as 
he  took  the  bottle.  "And  now — you'll  excuse  us, 
lad."  . 

It  wasn't  a  question,  that  last;  it  was  a  statement. 
Little  he  cared  if  I  excused  him  or  not.  He  shut  the 
door  in  my  face,  and  I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the 
lock. 

Well,  I  suppose  I  should  have  been  incensed  by 
this  off-hand  dismissal.  Oh,  I  was  no  meek  and 
humble  specimen;  my  temper  was  only  too  touchy, 
and  besides  there  was  my  reputation  as  a  hard  case 
to  look  to.  But  strangely  enough  I  did  not  become 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  41 

incensed ;  I  never  thought  of  kicking  down  the  door, 
I  never  thought  of  harboring  a  grudge.  It  wasn't 
fear  of  the  big  man,  either.  It  was — well,  that  was 
Newman.  He  could  do  a  thing  like  that,  and  get 
away  with  it. 

The  carousing  gang  downstairs  was  more  than 
ever  distasteful  to  me.  I  went  into  my  own  room 
and  lay  down  upon  the  bed.  The  liquor  that  was  in 
me  made  me  a  bit  drowsy,  and  I  rather  relished  the 
thought  of  a  nap. 

But  I  discovered  I  was  likely  to  be  cheated  of 
even  the  nap  by  my  next  door  neighbors.  The  walls 
in  the  Swede's  house  were  poor  barriers  to  sounds, 
and  lying  there  on  the  bed  I  suddenly  found  myself 
overhearing  a  considerable  part  of  the  conversation 
in  the  next  room.  Newman's  deep  voice  was  a  mere 
rumble,  a  menacing  rumble,  with  the  words  undis- 
tinguishable,  but  the  beggar's  disagreeable  whine 
carried  through  the  partition  so  distinctly  I  could 
not  help  overhearing  nearly  every  word  he  said.  I 
didn't  try  to  eavesdrop;  at  the  time  Beasley's  words 
had  little  interest  or  meaning  for  me.  But  after 
wards,  on  the  ship,  I  had  reason  to  ponder  over  what 
he  said. 

The  burden  of  his  speech  was  to  the  effect  that 
somebody  referred  to  as  "he"  was  to  blame.  Aye, 
trust  a  rat  of  that  caliber  to  set  up  that  wail.  For 
some  time  that  was  all  I  got  from  the  words  that 
came  through  the  wall.  I  wasn't  trying  to  listen;  I 
was  drowsing,  and  paying  very  little  attention. 


42  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

But  gradually  Beasley's  whine  grew  louder  and 
more  distinct.  I  suppose  the  whisky  was  oiling  his 
tongue.  Once  he  cried  out  sharply,  "For  God's 
sake,  don't  look  at  me  like  that  I  I'm  telling  the 
truth,  I  swear  I  am!"  The  scrape  of  a  chair  fol 
lowed  this  outburst,  and  when  the  whine  began  again 
it  was  closer  to  the  wall,  and  more  distinct  than 
ever. 

"I  didn't  want  to,  but  he  made  me.  I  had  to  look 
out  for  myself,  hadn't  I  ?  I  had  to  do  what  he  said. 
He  had  this  paper  of  mine — he  knew  they  were 
forgeries — I  had  to  do  what  he  said.  But,  my  God, 
I  didn't  know  what  he  was  planning — I  swear  I 
didn't!" 

Newman's  rumble  broke  in,  and  then  the  voluble, 
reedy  voice  continued,  "But  he  was  wild  when  he 
came  home  and  found  you  and  Mary  so  thick,  and 
everybody  just  waiting  for  the  announcement  that  it 
was  a  match.  Why,  he  had  the  whole  thing  planned, 
the  very  day  he  arrived.  I  know  he  had,  because 
he  came  to  me,  in  the  tavern,  and  told  me  I  was  to 
drop  hints  here  and  there  through  the  village  that 
you  and  Beulah  Twigg  had  been  seen  together  in 
Boston.  I  didn't  want  to,  but  I  had  to  obey  him. 
Why,  those  checks — he  could  have  put  me  in  prison. 
My  father  would  not  have  helped  me.  You  remem 
ber  my  father — he  was  ready  to  throw  me  out  any 
way.  He  never  could  make  allowances  for  a  young 
fellow's  fun. 

"He  had  others  dropping  hints  around.     Trust 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  43 

him  to  handle  a  job  like  that.  He  was  your  friend, 
and  Mary's  friend — your  very  best  friend,  and  all 
the  time  the  tongues  were  wagging  behind  your  back. 
Why,  it  was  the  talk  of  the  town.  You  and  Beulah 
Twigg,  together  in  Boston;  you  and  Beulah  together 
at  sea;  you  and  Beulah — well,  you  know  what  a 
story  they  would  make  of  it  in  a  little  town  like 
Freeport.  Mary  must  have  heard  the  gossip  about 
you ;  the  women  would  tell  her. 

"But  it  didn't  seem  to  have  any  effect.  The  two 
of  you  were  as  thick  as  ever.  We  were  laying  bets 
in  the  tavern  that  you  would  be  married  before  you 
went  to  sea  again.  He  didn't  like  that — the  talk 
about  your  wedding.  But  he  wasn't  beaten  yet;  he 
was  just  preparing  his  ground.  Oh,  he  was  a  slick 
devil! 

"He  came  to  me  one  day  and  said,  'Beasley,  give 
me  the  key  to  the  Old  Place — and  keep  your  mouth 
shut  and  stay  away  from  there.' 

"Now  you  begin  to  understand?  The  Old  Place 
— that  tumble-down  old  ruin  of  a  house  all  alone  out 
there  on  the  cliffs.  It  belonged  to  my  father,  you 
remember,  but  it  hadn't  been  lived  in  for  years.  I 
had  a  key  because  we  young  bloods  used  the  place 
for  card-playing,  and  high  jinks. 

"I  gave  him  the  key.  Why  not?  It  was  a  small 
matter.  He  went  off  to  Boston — business  trip,  he 
said.  I  could  make  a  good  guess  at  the  nature  of 
the  business.  Didn't  I  know  his  ways?  But  I 
wouldn't  blab;  he  owned  me  body  and  soul.  I  was 


44  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

afraid  of  him.  His  soft  voice,  his  slick  ways,  and 
what  he  could  do  to  me  if  I  didn't  obey ! 

"He  brought  Beulah  Twigg  back  with  him  from 
Boston.  Now  you  understand?  Little  Beulah — 
pretty  face,  empty  head,  too  much  heart.  He  owned 
her  body  and  soul,  too.  When  folks  wondered 
where  she  had  run  off  to,  I  could  have  told  them. 
I  knew  how  he'd  played  with  her,  on  the  quiet, 
while  he  sparked  Mary  in  the  open — last  time  he 
was  home.  You  were  home  then,  also.  Remember, 
you  left  a  day  ahead  of  him,  to  join  your  ship  in 
New  York?  A  China  voyage,  wasn't  it?  Well — 
Beulah  left  the  same  day.  Just  disappeared.  And 
poor  old  Twigg  couldn't  understand  it.  You  re 
member  the  old  fool?  Beulah  was  all  the  family 
he  had,  and  after  she  skipped  out  he  got  to  drinking. 
They  found  him  one  morning  at  the  bottom  of  the 
cliffs,  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  spot  where  they 
afterwards  found  her. 

"But  I  knew  what  had  become  of  Beulah.  I 
guessed  right.  Didn't  I  know  his  ways  with  the 
girls?  You  know  there  weren't  many  women  who 
could  stand  out  against  him.  Mary  could,  and  did 
— that's  why  he  was  so  wild  against  you.  But  little 
Beulah — she  threw  herself  at  him.  And  when  she 
ran  away,  it  was  to  join  him  in  Philadelphia,  and 
go  sailing  with  him  to  South  America. 

"Now  you  know  how  he  turned  the  trick  on  you, 
don't  you?  But — don't  look  at  me  like  that!  I 
didn't  know  what  he  was  doing,  I  swear  I  didn't! 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  45 

I  thought  he  just  wanted  his  sweetheart  near  him, 
or  that  she  insisted  on  coming,  or  something  like 
that.  I  thought  it  was  devilish  bold  of  him,  bring 
ing  the  girl  where  everybody  knew  her.  But  then, 
he  really  wasn't  taking  such  a  chance,  because  no 
body  ever  went  near  the  Old  Place,  except  upon  my 
invitation,  and  he  drove  her  over  from  the  next 
township  in  the  night,  and  she  didn't  come  near  the 
village.  I  knew,  but  he  knew  I  wouldn't  blab.  My 
God,  no ! 

"Well,  he  came  to  me  the  next  day  after  he  got 
back  from  Boston.  'I  ask  a  favor  of  you,'  he  said 
to  me.  Yes — asking  favors,  when  he  knew  I  must 
do  what  he  said.  Smiling  and  purring — you  re 
member  the  pleasant  manner  he  had.  'Just  a  short 
note.  I  know  you  are  handy  with  the  pen,'  he  said. 

"What  could  I  do?  I  had  to  look  out  for  my 
self.  He  gave  me  a  page  from  an  old  letter  as  a 
sample  of  the  handwriting.  It  was  Mary  Bain- 
tree's  writing;  oh,  I  knew  it  well.  I  had  it  perfect 
in  a  few  minutes.  You  know — I  had  a  rare  trick 
with  the  pen  in  those  days — before  this  cough  got 
me,  and  my  hand  got  shaky.  The  note  I  wrote  for 
him  was  a  mere  line.  'Meet  me  at  Beasley's  Old 
Place  at  three,'  with  her  initial  signed.  That  was 
all.  But  he  had  a  sheet  of  her  own  special  note 
paper  for  me  to  write  on  (no,  I  don't  know  where  he 
got  it!)  and  of  course  he  knew — like  we  all  knew — 
how  fond  the  two  of  you  were  of  lovers'  walks  out 
on  the  cliffs. 


46  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Do  you  remember  how  you  got  that  note  ?  Oh, 
he  was  a  slick  devil.  He  thought  of  everything. 
Abel  Horn  brought  it  to  you — remember?  He  told 
you,  with  a  wink  and  a  grin,  that  it  was  from  a 
lady — but  he  didn't  say  what  lady.  Remember? 
Well,  Beulah  had  given  him  the  note,  and  told 
him  to  say  that — not  to  mention  names.  Abel 
was  a  good  fellow;  he  wouldn't  gossip.  He  knew 
that. 

"That  wasn't  the  only  note  he  had  written.  He 
made  Beulah  write  one,  too,  addressed  to  Mary, 
and  asking  her  to  come  to  the  Old  Place,  and  be 
secret  about  it.  Ah,  now  you  understand?  But — 
1  swear  I  didn't  know  what  he  was  leading  up  to. 
No,  I  didn't.  I  thought  it  was — well,  all's  fair  in 
love,  you  know.  And  I  had  to  do  what  he  said,  I 
had  to ! 

"Poor  little  Beulah  had  to  do  what  he  said,  too. 
I  only  feared  him,  but  she  loved  and  feared  him 
both.  He  owned  her  completely.  He  had  made  her 
into  a  regular  echo  of  himself.  She  didn't  want  to, 
she  cried  about  it,  but  she  had  to  do  what  he 
said. 

"Mary  came,  as  he  knew  she  would.  Didn't  she 
have  the  kindest  heart  in  the  country?  And  there 
he  was,  with  Beulah,  with  his  eyes  on  her,  and  his 
soft,  sly  words  making  her  lie  seem  more  true.  I 
heard  it  all.  I  was  upstairs.  He  placed  me  there,  in 
case  Mary  didn't  believe;  then  I  was  to  come  in  and 
tell  about  seeing  you  and  Beulah  together  in  Boston, 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  47 

and  how  she  begged  me  to  bring  her  home.  But — 
for  God's  sake! — I  didn't  do  it.  I  didn't  have  to. 
Mary  believed.  How  could  she  help  believing — the 
gossip,  and  poor  little  Beulah  sobbing  out  her  story. 
Beulah  said  it  was  you  who  got  the  best  of  her. 
She  didn't  want  to  say  it,  she  faltered  and  choked 
on  the  lie,  but  his  eyes  were  on  her,  and  his  voice 
urged  her,  and  so  she  had  to  say  it.  The  very  way 
she  carried  on  made  the  lie  seem  true. 

"Well,  Mary  did  just  what  he  expected  her  to 
do.  She  promised  to  help  Beulah;  she  told  Beulah 
she  would  make  you  make  amends.  Then  she  rushed 
out  of  the  house  and  met  you  coming  along  the 
cliff  road — coming  along  all  spruced  up,  and  with 
the  look  about  you  of  one  going  to  meet  a  lady. 
Just  as  he  planned. 

"What  more  could  Mary  ask  in  the  way  of  evi 
dence  than  the  sight  of  you  in  that  place  at  that 
time?  Of  course  she  was  convinced,  completely  con 
vinced.  And  she  behaved  just  as  he  knew  she  would 
behave — she  denounced  you,  and  threw  your  ring  in 
your  face,  and  raced  off  home.  And  you  behaved 
just  as  he  knew  you  would  behave.  He  was  a  slick 
devil !  He  knew  your  pride  and  temper ;  he  counted 
on  them.  He  knew  you  would  be  too  proud  to  chase 
Mary  down  and  demand  a  full  explanation ;  that  you 
would  be  too  angry  to  sift  the  thing  to  the  bottom. 
You  packed  up  and  went  off  to  New  York  that  night 
to  join  your  ship — and  that  was  just  what  he  wanted 
you  to  do. 


48  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Next  morning  you  were  gone,  and — they  picked 
up  little  Beulah  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliffs.  And  you 
gone  in  haste,  without  a  word.  They  said  she 
jumped — desertion,  despair,  you  know  what  they 
would  make  of  it.  The  gossip — and  Abel  Horn's 
tale — and  you  running  away  to  sea. 

"And  I — my  flesh  would  creep  when  I  looked  at 
him.  I  was  certain  she — didn't  jump.  I  tell  you  he 
was  a  devil.  There  wasn't  anything  he  wouldn't  do. 
He  didn't  have  such  a  feeling  as  mercy.  Didn't  I 
find  it  out?  He  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me — and  he 
did.  Before  the  week  was  out;  before  Beulah  was 
fairly  buried,  before  Mary  was  outdoors  again.  He 
showed  those  checks  I  had  signed — and  I  had  to  go, 
I  had  to  go  far  and  in  a  hurry.  After  all  I  had 
done  for  him,  that's  the  way  he  treated  me." 

There  was  a  movement  of  chairs  in  the  next  room, 
and  a  scraping  of  feet.  There  was  more  talk,  New 
man's  heavy  murmur,  and  responding  whines.  But 
I  do  not  remember  what  else  was  said.  In  fact,  al 
though  I  have  given  you  Beasley's  tale  in  straight 
forward  fashion,  I  did  not  overhear  it  as  I  tell  it.  I 
caught  it  in  snatches,  so  to  speak,  rather  discon 
nected  snatches  which  I  pieced  together  afterwards. 
I  heard  this  fellow,  Beasley,  talk  while  lying  drows 
ing  on  the  bed,  and  not  trying  particularly  to  under 
stand  his  words.  In  fact,  I  did  drop  off  to  sleep. 
First  thing  I  knew,  the  Knitting  Swede  was  shaking 
me  awake.  "Yump  out  of  it,  Yackie,"  says  he.  "We 
go  aboard." 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  49 

I  turned  out,  shouldered  my  sea-bag,  and  went 
downstairs.  There  was  Newman,  with  his  dunnage, 
waiting.  He  was  alone.  There  was  no  sign  of  my 
beggar  about.  In  fact,  I  never  saw  him  again.  New 
man's  face  didn't  invite  questions. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  even  think  of  asking 
him  questions.  I  had  forgotten  Beasley;  I  was  wor 
rying  about  myself.  Now  that  the  hour  had  come 
to  join  the  ship,  I  wasn't  feeling  quite  so  carefree 
and  chesty.  I  went  into  the  bar,  and  poured  Dutch 
courage  into  myself,  until  the  Knitting  Swede  was 
ready  to  leave. 

We  rode  down  to  the  dock  in  a  hack.  I  was  con 
siderably  elated  when  the  vehicle  drew  up  before  the 
door;  it  is  not  every  sailorman  who  rides  down  to  the 
dock  in  a  hack,  you  bet !  The  Swede  was  spreading 
himself  to  give  us  a  grand  send-off,  I  thought !  But 
I  changed  my  mind  when  we  started.  The  hack  was 
on  Newman's  account,  solely;  and  he  made  a  quick 
dash  from  the  door  to  its  shelter,  with  his  face  con 
cealed  by  cap  and  pea-coat  collar.  He  didn't  want 
to  be  seen  in  the  streets — that  is  why  we  rode  in 
the  hack! 

The  ride  was  made  amidst  a  silence  that  proved 
to  be  a  wet  blanket  to  all  my  attempts  to  be  jovial, 
and  light-hearted  and  devil-may-care.  The  Swede 
slumped  in  one  seat,  with  our  dunnage  piled  by  his 
side,  wheezing  profanely  as  the  lurching  of  the  hack 
over  the  cobblestones  jolted  the  sea-bags  against 
him,  and  grunting  at  my  efforts  to  make  conver- 


50  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

sation.     Newman     sat     by     my     side.     Once     he 
spoke. 

"You  are  sure  the  lady  sails,  Swede?"  was  what 
he  said. 

"Ja,  I  have  it  vrom  Swope,  himself,"  the  crimp 
replied. 

Now,  of  course,  I  had  already  reasoned  it  out  that 
Newman  was  sailing  in  the  Golden  Bough  because 
of  the  lady  aft,  and  that  he  had  once  owned  some 
other  name  than  "Newman."  That  was  as  plain  as 
the  nose  on  my  face.  I  didn't  bother  my  head  about 
it;  the  man's  reasons  were  his  own,  and  foc'sle  cus 
tom  said  that  a  shipmate  should  be  judged  by  his 
acts,  not  by  his  past,  or  his  motives.  But  I  did 
bother  my  head  about  his  question  in  the  hack — or 
rather  about  the  Swede's  manner  of  replying  to  it. 
It  was  a  little  thing,  but  very  noticeable  to  a  sailor. 

The  Swede's  manner  towards  me  was  one  of 
genial  condescension,  like  a  father  towards  an  in 
dulged  child.  This  was  a  proper  bearing  for  a 
powerful  crimp  to  adopt  towards  a  foremost  hand. 
But  the  Swede's  manner  towards  Newman  was  dif 
ferent.  There  was  respect  in  it,  as  though  he  were 
talking  to  some  skipper.  It  considerably  increased 
the  feeling  of  awe  I  was  beginning  to  have  for  my 
stern  shipmate. 

I  supposed  we  would  join  the  rest  of  the  crew  at 
the  dock,  and  go  on  board  in  orthodox  fashion,  on 
a  tug,  with  drugged  and  drunken  men  lying  around, 
to  be  met  at  the  rail  by  the  mates,  and  dressed  down 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  51 

into  the  foc'sle.  Such  was  the  custom  of  the  port. 
But  when  we  alighted  at  Meigg's  Wharf  not  a  sailor 
or  runner  was  in  sight.  A  regiment  of  roosting  gulls 
was  in  lonely  possession  of  the  planking.  The  hack 
rattled  away;  the  Swede,  bidding  us  gather  up  our 
dunnage  and  follow  him,  waddled  to  the  wharf  edge, 
and  disappeared  over  the  string-piece. 

"Why,  where  is  the  crew?"  I  asked  of  Newman. 
"You  and  I,  alone,  aren't  going  to  sail  the  ruddy 
packet?" 

"They'll  follow  later,"  replied  Newman.  "The 
Swede  is  going  to  put  us  two  aboard.  He's  getting 
the  boat  free  now." 

I  stopped  stock  still.  The  constant  surprises  were 
rapidly  shocking  me  sober,  and  this  last  one  fairly 
took  my  breath  for  a  moment.  The  Swede  was 
putting  us  on  board! 

Now,  the  King  of  Crimps  didn't  put  sailormen 
on  board.  He  hired  runners  to  oversee  the  disposal 
of  the  slaves.  The  most  he  did  was  lounge  in  the 
sternsheets  of  his  Whitehall  while  his  retainers 
rowed  him  out  to  a  ship  to  interview  the  captain, 
and  collect  his  blood  money.  It  was  unusual  for  the 
Swede  to  go  down  to  the  dock  with  a  couple  of  men; 
and  now,  he  was  going  to  fasten  his  lordly 
hands  upon  a  pair  of  oars  and  row  us  out  to  our 
vessel ! 

"Say,  what  is  the  idea?"  I  demanded  of  Newman. 
"We  are  no  flaming  dukes  to  be  coddled  this  way!" 

Newman  placed  his  hand    upon    my    shoulders. 


52  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"What  say  you  call  it  off,  lad  ?"  he  said.  "That  hell- 
ship  yonder  is  no  proper  berth  for  you.  Take  my 
advice,  and  dodge  around  the  corner  with  your  bag. 
I  can  fix  it  with  the  Swede,  all  right." 

I  should  have  liked  to  have  taken  the  advice,  I  ad 
mit.  I  was  not  in  nearly  such  a  vainglorious  mood  as 
I  had  been  back  in  the  Swede's  barroom,  with  the 
waterfront  applauding  me.  If  Newman  had  offered 
to  dodge  around  the  corner  with  me,  I'd  have  gone. 
The  aspect  of  that  empty  wharf  was  depressing,  and 
there  was  something  sinister  about  all  these  unusual 
circumstances  surrounding  our  joining  the  ship.  I 
began  to  feel  that  there  was  something  wrong  about 
the  Golden  Bough  besides  her  bucko  mates,  and  I 
possessed  the  superstitions  of  my  kind.  But  New 
man  did  not  offer  to  dodge  around  the  corner  with 
me.  He  was  merely  advising  me,  in  a  fatherly,  pity 
ing  fashion  that  my  nineteen-year-old  manhood 
could  not  stomach. 

"I  shipped  in  her,  and  I'll  sail  in  her,"  I  told  him, 
shortly.  "I  can  stand  as  much  hell  as  any  man,  and 
I'd  join  her  if  I  had  to  swim  for  it.  That  flaming 
packet  can't  scare  me  away;  I'll  take  a  pay-day  from 
her,  yet !"  I  was  bound  I'd  live  up  to  my  reputation 
as  a  hard  case !  I  was  letting  Newman  know  I  was 
just  as  proper  a  nut  as  himself. 

The  Swede  hailed  us  from  the  darkness  beyond. 
We  reached  the  wharf  edge,  and  dimly  made  out  the 
Swede's  huge  bulk  squatting  in  a  Whitehall  boat 
below.  "Yurnp  in!"  he  bade  us.  We  tossed  our 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  53 

bags  down,  followed  ourselves,  and  a  moment  later 
I  was  bidding  farewell  to  the  beach. 

The  Swede  lay  back  manfully  on  the  oars,  grunt 
ing  with  every  stroke.  He  was  expert;  he  seemed  to 
make  nothing  of  the  inrushing  tide,  and  quickly  fer 
ried  us  out  into  the  fairway.  Newman  and  I  sat 
together  in  the  sternsheets,  each  wrapped  in  his 
mantle  of  dignified  silence.  I  kept  my  eyes  on  the 
black  bulk  of  the  vessel  we  were  rapidly  nearing, 
and  I  confess  my  thoughts  were  not  very  cheerful. 
One  needed  jolly  companions,  and  more  drink  inside 
than  I  had,  to  have  cheerful  thoughts  when  joining 
the  Golden  Bough. 

The  Swede  lay  on  his  oars  when  we  were  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  ship,  allowing  us  to  drift 
down  with  the  tide.  He  fumbled  about  his  clothes 
for  a  moment,  and  produced  a  bottle.  "Here, 
yoongstar,  you  take  a  yoltl"  he  commanded,  pass 
ing  me  the  bottle. 

I  thought  he  was  just  bolstering  up  my  courage, 
and  I  was  grateful.  I  swallowed  a  great  gulp  of  the 
fiery  stuff.  It  was  good  liquor,  and  possessed  an 
added  flavor  to  which  I  was  stranger. 

I  passed  the  bottle  to  Newman;  he  accepted  it,  but 
I  noticed  he  did  not  drink. 

The  Swede  lifted  up  his  voice  and  hailed  the 
ship.  Immediately,  the  most  magnificent  fore-top- 
sail-yard-ahoy  voice  I  had  ever  heard  bellowed  a 
reply,  "Ahoy,  the  boat!  What  d'ye  want?" 

"That  ban  Lynch,"  remarked  the  Swede  to  us. 


54  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Then  he  called  in  reply.  "Ay  ban  Swede  Olson  with 
two  hands  for  you !  Heave  over  da  Yacob's  ladder, 
Mistar  Lynch!"  He  lay  back  on  his  oars,  and  shot 
us  under  the  quarter. 

A  moment  later  the  three  of  us  were  standing  on 
the  clipper  maindeck,  confronting  a  large  man  who 
inspected  us  with  the  aid  of  a  lantern.  Afterwards, 
I  discovered  Mister  Second  Mate  Lynch  to  be  a 
handsome,  muscular  chap,  with  not  so  much  of  the 
"bucko"  in  his  bearing  as  his  reputation  led  one  to 
expect.  But  at  the  moment  I  was  impressed  only  by 
his  big  body  and  stern  face.  In  truth,  even  that  im 
pression  was  hazy,  for  the  drink  I  had  taken  from 
the  Swede's  bottle  a  moment  before  proved  to  be 
surprisingly  potent.  No  sooner  did  I  set  foot  upon 
the  deck  than  I  commenced  to  feel  a  heavy  languor 
overcoming  my  body  and  mind. 

Lynch  turned,  and  his  voice  rumbled  into  the 
lighted  cabin  alleyway.  "Oh,  Fitz,  come  here. 
Those  two  jaspers  we  heard  of  have  come  aboard." 

A  moment  later  a  man  came  from  the  cabin  and 
stood  by  Lynch's  side.  Here  was  a  true  bucko,  even 
my  addled  wits  sensed  that.  A  human  gorilla,  with 
a  battered  face  and  brutal,  pitiless  mouth — the 
dreaded  Fitzgibbon,  "chief  kicker"  of  the  Golden 
Bough. 

Mister  "Fitz"  regarded  us  with  a  sneering  smile. 
"Huh,  stewed  to  the  gills !  What  did  you  dope  'em 
with,  Swede?"  he  said.  Then  he  added  to  Lynch, 
"Good  beef,  though.  They'll  pull  their  weight. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  55 

Hope  there  are  more  like  them."  He  gave  his  re 
gard  to  me,  looked  me  up  and  down  slowly,  and 
then  turned  his  eyes  on  Newman.  "Shipped  them 
selves,  did  they?  Two  jumps  ahead  o'  the  police,  I 
bet !  Lord,  what  a  cargo  he's  got  aboard !" 

This  last  referred  to  Newman.  I  was  staring  at 
him,  myself,  with  stupid  surprise,  his  peculiar  antics 
aiding  me  to  retain  a  slender  clutch  on  my  senses. 

For  Newman  was  drunk,  rip-roaring  drunk.  Now 
mind,  he  had  been  cold  sober  a  few  moments  before 
when  I  handed  him  the  Swede's  bottle,  and  I  was 
quite  certain  he  had  not  touched  that  bottle  to  his 
lips.  He  came  over  the  rail  with  the  bottle  clutched 
in  his  hand,  and  as  soon  as  he  touched  the  deck  he 
was  as  pickled  as  any  sailor  who  ever  joined  a  ship. 
He  hung  his  head,  and  lurched  unsteadily  from  foot 
to  foot,  mumbling  to  himself.  Suddenly  he  bran 
dished  the  bottle,  and  commenced  to  howl,  "Blow 
the  Man  Down,"  in  a  raucous  voice. 

"Stow  that!"  commanded  Lynch,  shortly.  "You'll 
wake  up  the  lady  I" 

Newman  shut  up.  "Vas  da  lady  on  board?"  asked 
the  Swede,  respectfully. 

"Yes,  and  if  that  jasper  rouses  her,  I'll  shove  a 
pin  down  his  gullet!"  answered  Lynch.  "Here  you 
two,"  he  commanded  us,  "gather  up  your  dunnage 
andgetfor'rd!" 

Newman  and  I  grappled  laboriously  with  our 
bags.  Fitzgibbon  spoke  to  the  Swede.  "When  does 
the  crew  come  off?" 


56  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Flood  tide,"  answered  the  Swede.  "Captain 
Swope  comes  with  them.  And  I  send  a  port  gang  to 
get  you  oondar  way." 

"Hope  there  are  some  more  huskies  like  these 
two,"  said  Lynch. 

"Ja,  day  ban  all  able  seamans,"  declared  the 
Swede. 

"You're  a  filthy  liar!"  I  heard  Lynch  comment. 
But  further  words  I  lost,  for  Newman  and  I  went 
stumbling  forward  to  the  forecastle. 

We  dumped  our  bags  upon  the  floor,  and  New 
man  lighted  the  lamp.  My  knees  gave  way,  and 
I  sat  down  upon  the  bench  that  ran  around  beside 
the  tiers  of  empty  bunks.  Then,  when  the  flickering 
light  revealed  my  companion's  face,  I  felt  another 
shock  of  surprise. 

For  Newman  was  sober  again.  As  soon  as  he 
was  out  of  sight  of  the  group  on  the  after  deck,  he 
dropped  his  inebriety  like  a  mantle.  The  face  I 
looked  into  was  alert  and  hard  set,  and  the  eyes 
gleamed  strangely  as  though  the  man  were  laboring 
under  a  strong,  repressed  excitement.  Newman 
wore  an  air  of  triumph,  as  though  he  had  just  ac 
complished  a  difficult  victory.  My  tongue  had  sud 
denly  become  very  thick,  but  I  managed  to  mumble 
a  query.  "Say,  matey,  what's  the  game?" 

He  regarded  me  sharply.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you,  lad?"  he  exclaimed.  He  leaned  over, 
pressed  up  one  of  my  eyelids,  and  looked  into  my 
eye.  Then  he  tilted  the  bottle  he  still  carried,  and 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  57 

wetted  his  lips  with  the  liquor.  "That  .  .  .  Swede ! 
He  drugged  this  bottle!  Bound  to  get  the  blood 
money  for  you!" 

I  didn't  answer.  I  couldn't,  for  while  Newman 
was  speaking,  a  wonderful  thing  happened.  He 
suddenly  dwindled  in  size  until  he  was  no  larger 
than  a  manikin,  going  through  the  motion  of  drink 
ing  from  a  tiny  bottle;  while  in  contrast,  his  voice 
increased  so  tremendously  in  volume  it  broke  upon 
my  ears  like  a  surf  upon  a  beach.  I  couldn't  grasp 
the  miracle. 

".  .  .  well,  not  enough  to  hurt  .  .  all  right  to 
morrow  .  .  ."  Newman  boomed.  Then  he  picked 
me  up  in  his  arms  and  deposited  me  in  a  bunk.  He 
got  a  blanket  out  of  my  bag  and  spread  it  over  me.  I 
found  something  very  comical  about  this,  though  I 
couldn't  laugh  as  I  wished.  One  hard  case  tucking 
in  another  hard  case,  like  a  mother  tucks  in  her 
child! 

The  last  thing  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  ere  oblivion 
overcrept  me,  was  Newman's  manikin-sized  figure 
stretching  out  in  a  manikin-sized  bunk  opposite. 


CHAPTER  V 

MY  head  ached,  my  tongue  was  thick  and 
wood-tastey,  but  I  awoke  in  full  possession 
of  my  faculties.  Even  in  the  brief  instant 
between  the  awakening  and  the  eye-opening,  I  sensed 
what  was  about. 

The  motion  told  me  the  ship  was  under  way.  The 
noises  that  had  probably  aroused  me,  boomed  com 
mands,  stormed  curses,  groans,  sounds  of  blows, 
feet  stamping — all  told  me  that  the  mates  were 
turning  to  the  crew.  I  sat  up  and  looked 
around. 

It  had  been  dark  night,  and  the  foc'sle  empty, 
when  Newman  had  tucked  me  in  for  my  drugged 
siesta.  Now  it  was  broad  day,  and  a  bright  streak 
of  sunlight  streaming  into  the  dirty  hole  through  the 
open  door  showed  men's  forms  sprawled  in  the 
bunks  about  me. 

The  Golden  Bough  had  a  topgallant  foc'sle,  the 
port  and  starboard  sides  divided  by  a  partition  that 
reached  not  quite  to  the  deck  above,  and  which  con 
tained  a  connecting  door.  Newman  and  I  had  stum 
bled  into  the  port  foc'sle  the  previous  night,  and 
as  I  sat  up,  I  discovered  that  the  babel  of  sound 
came  from  the  starboard  side  of  the  partition. 
I  swung  up  into  the  bunk  above  my  head,  raised 

58 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  59 

my   eyes   above   the   partition,    and   looked   down. 

I  saw  Mister  Lynch,  the  second  mate,  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  starboard  foc'sle's  floor.  He  was 
turning  to  the  crew  with  a  vengeance.  His  method 
was  simple,  effective,  but  rather  ungentle.  His  long 
arm  would  dart  into  a  bunk  where  lay  huddled  a 
formless  heap  of  rags.  This  heap  of  rags,  yanked 
bodily  out  of  bed,  would  resolve  itself  into  a  limp 
and  drunken  man.  Then  Mister  Lynch  would 
commence  to  eject  life  into  the  sodden  lump, 
working  scientifically  and  dispassionately,  and 
bellowing  the  while  ferocious  oaths  in  the  victim's 
ear. 

"Out  on  deck  with  you!"  he  would  cry,  shaking 
the  limp  bundle  much  as  a  dog  would  shake  a  rat. 
A  sharp  clout  on  either  jaw  would  elicit  a  profane 
protest  from  the  patient.  The  toe  of  his  heavy 
boot,  sharply  applied  where  it  would  do  the  most 
good,  would  produce  further  evidences  of  life. 
Then  Lynch  would  take  firm  grasp  of  the  scruff 
of  the  neck  and  seat  of  the  breeches,  and  hurl  the 
resurrected  one  through  the  door  onto  the  deck, 
and  out  of  range  of  my  vision.  A  waspish  voice 
streaming  blistering  oaths  proved  that  Mister 
Fitzgibbon  was  welcoming  each  as  he  emerged  into 
daylight.  Another  voice,  melodiously  penetrating 
the  uproar,  proved  another  man  was  watching  the 
crew  turn  to.  I  recognized  the  silky,  musical  voice 
of  Yankee  Swope.  "Stir  them  up,  Mister!  Make 


60  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

them  jump!  My  ship  is  no  hotel!"  is  what  it 
said. 

The  second  mate  boosted  the  starboard  foc'sle's 
last  occupant  deckwards;  then  he  paused  a  moment 
for  a  breathing  spell.  Next,  his  roving  eye  rested 
upon  my  face  blinking  down  at  him  from  the  top  of 
the  wall. 

"Oh,  ho — so  you  have  come  to  life,  have  you!" 
he  addressed  me.  "The  Swede  said  you  would  be 
dead  until  afternoon!" 

He  stepped  through  the  connecting  door,  into  my 
side  of  the  foc'sle,  and  looked  about.  I  leaped  down 
from  the  upper  bunk  and  stood  before  him,  feel 
ing  rather  sheepish  at  having  been  discovered 
spying. 

"Where  is  that  big  jasper  who  came  aboard  with 
you?"  he  suddenly  demanded  of  me. 

"Why — there !"  I  replied  promptly,  indicating  the 
bunk  opposite  the  one  in  which  I  had  slept. 

Then,  I  became  aware  that  Newman  was  not  in 
that  bunk;  and  a  rapid  survey  of  the  foc'sle  showed 
he  was  not  in  any  bunk.  He  was  gone,  though  his 
sea-bag  was  still  lying  on  the  floor.  The  bunk  I 
thought  he  was  in  contained  an  occupant  of  very 
different  aspect  from  my  grim  companion  of  the 
night  before. 

A  short,  spare  man  of  some  thirty  years,  wearing 
an  old  red  flannel  shirt,  was  stretched  out  upon  the 
bare  bunk-boards.  Lynch  and  I  contemplated  him 
in  silence  for  a  moment. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  61 

He  was  no  beachcomber  or  sailor,  one  could  tell 
that  at  a  glance.  His  skin  had  no  tan  upon  it.  It 
was  white  and  soft.  Obviously,  he  was  no  inhabitant 
of  the  underworld  of  forecastles  and  waterside 
groggeries.  His  white  face  looked  intelligent  and 
forceful  even  in  unconsciousness. 

In  some  way,  the  man  had  come  by  a  wicked  blow 
upon  the  head.  It  was  the  cause,  I  suspected,  of  his 
swoon,  and  stertorous  breathing.  Dried  blood  was 
plastered  on  the  boards  about  his  head,  and  his 
thick,  dark  hair  was  clotted  and  matted  with  the 
flow  from  his  wound. 

Lynch  leaned  over,  and  opened  one  of  the  fel 
low's  loosely  clenched  hands.  It  was  as  white  and 
soft  as  a  lady's  hand. 

uThis  jasper  is  no  bum — or  sailor!"  declared 
Lynch.  "That  damn  Swede's  been  up  to  some  o'  his 
tricks.  Well — we'll  make  a  sailor  of  him  before  we 
fetch  China  Sea,  I  reckon!"  He  straightened,  and 
turned  on  me  with  another  demand  for  Newman. 
"Where  did  you  say  that  big  jasper  was?" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders  helplessly.  I  could  have 
sworn  Newman  had  turned  into  that  bunk;  and  I 
told  him  so. 

Lynch  snorted.  "Didn't  have  the  guts  to  face 
the  music,  I  reckon,  and  cleared  out!  Well,  if  he 
tried  to  swim  for  it,  I'll  bet  he's  feeding  fishes  now!" 
His  eyes  roved  around  the  room.  Several  of  the 
bunks  were  occupied  by  nondescript  figures,  but  New 
man's  huge  bulk  did  not  appear.  "Damned  seedy 


62  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

bunch,"  commented  Lynch.  "Couldn't  afford  to  lose 
good  beef.  Hello — who's  this?" 

His  eyes  rested  upon  the  bunk  farthest  forward, 
athwartship  bunk  in  the  eyes.  The  body  of  a  big 
man  lying  therein  loomed  indistinctly  in  the  gloom 
of  the  corner.  Lynch  reached  the  bunk  with  a 
bound,  and  I  was  close  behind. 

But  it  was  not  Newman.  It  was — the  Cockney ! 
The  very  man  to  whom  the  Swede  had  tendered  the 
runner's  job,  the  man  Newman  had  manhandled! 
He  lay  on  his  back,  snoring  loudly,  his  bloated,  un 
lovely  face  upturned  to  us. 

I  laughed.  "It's  the  runner,"  I  said.  "The 
Swede's  first  runner.  Swede  gave  him  the  job  yes 
terday." 

"And  gave  him  a  swig  out  of  the  black  bottle  last 
night!"  commented  Lynch.  Then  he  grasped  the 
significance  of  the  Swede's  double  cross,  and  his 
laughter  joined  mine.  "Ho,  ho — shanghaied  his 
own  runner!  Ho,  ho  .  .  .  that  damned  Swede!" 

Then  it  evidently  struck  Mister  Lynch  that  he 
was  conducting  himself  with  unseemly  levity  in  com 
pany  with  a  foremast  hand.  His  face  became  stern, 
his  voice  hard,  and  my  moment  of  grace  was  ended. 

"Turn  to!"  he  commanded  me.  "What  are  you 
standing  about  for?  Get  out  on  deck,  before  I 
boot  you  out!" 

I  knew  my  place,  and  I  obeyed  with  alacrity.  As 
I  reached  the  door,  his  voice  held  me  again  for  a 
moment. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  63 

"I  guess  you  are  a  smart  lad,"  says  he.  "I'll  pick 
you  for  my  watch,  if  Fitz  doesn't  get  ahead  of  me. 
Got  your  nerve — shipping  in  this  packet!  If  you 
know  your  work,  and  fly  about  it,  you'll  be  all  right. 
Otherwise,  God  help  you!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

DURING  my  brief  communion  with  Lynch  in 
the  foc'sle,  I  had,  of  course,  been  conscious 
of  ship  work  proceeding  on  deck.  I  had 
been  deaf  otherwise,  what  with  the  mate's  obscene, 
shrill  voice  ringing  through  the  ship,  and  the  rattle 
of  blocks,  the  cries  of  men,  and  the  tramp  of  their 
feet  as  they  pulled  together.  Now,  as  I  stepped 
from  the  foc'sle  into  the  bright  daylight,  I  saw  just 
what  work  was  doing. 

The  vessel  was  aback  on  the  main,  her  way  lost 
for  the  moment.  Abeam,  a  tug  was  puffing  away 
from  us,  carrying  the  port  crew — who  had  lifted 
anchor  and  taken  the  Golden  Bough  to  sea — back  to 
San  Francisco.  And  we  were  fairly  to  sea ;  the  rug 
ged  coast  of  Marin  was  miles  astern,  and  the  Golden 
Gate  was  lost  in  a  distant  haze.  The  voyage  was 
begun. 

I  saw  this  at  a  glance,  out  of  the  corners  of  my 
eyes,  as  I  ran  aft  to  join  the  crowd.  For  I  was 
minded  to  take  the  second  mate's  advice,  and  fly 
about  my  work  in  the  Golden  Bough.  To  wait  for 
an  order,  was,  I  knew  well  enough,  to  wait  for  a 
blow.  The  crowd  were  already  at  the  lee  braces, 
commencing  to  trim  up  the  yards,  and  I  tailed  onto 
the  line  and  threw  in  my  weight,  thanking  my  lucky 

64 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  65 

star  that  Mister  Fitzgibbon  was  too  busied  with  the 
weather  braces  to  accord  my  advent  on  deck  any 
other  reception  than  a  sizzling  oath. 

We  got  the  ship  under  way,  and  then  jumped  to 
other  work.  Mister  Lynch  had  flung  several  more 
sick,  frightened  wretches  out  of  the  foc'sle,  and  now 
he  joined  with  the  mate  in  forcible  encouragement 
of  our  efforts.  The  port  gang  had  hoisted  the  yards, 
and  loosed  the  sails,  but  the  upper  canvas  was  ill 
sheeted,  and  soon  we  were  pully-hauling  for  dear 
life. 

The  best  of  ships  is  a  madhouse  the  first  day  at 
sea,  but  the  Golden  Bough — God!  she  was  mad 
house  and  purgatory  rolled  into  one!  My  own 
agility  and  knowledge  saved  me  from  ill  usage  for 
the  moment,  since  the  mates  had  plenty  of  igno 
rant,  clumsy  material  to  work  upon.  Such  material ! 
I  never  before  or  after  saw  such  a  welter  of  human 
misery  as  on  that  bright  morning,  such  a  crowd  of 
sick,  suffering,  terrified  men.  Most  of  them  knew 
not  one  rope  from  another,  some  of  them  knew  not 
a  word  of  English,  half  of  them  were  still  drunk, 
and  stumbled  and  fell  as  they  were  driven  about,  the 
other  half  were  seasick  and  all  but  helpless.  Oh, 
they  caught  it,  I  tell  you !  The  mates  were  merci 
less,  as  their  reputations  declared  them  to  be.  It 
was  sing  out  an  order,  then  knock  a  man  down,  jerk 
him  to  his  feet,  thrust  a  line  into  his  hands,  and 
kick  him  until  he  bent  his  weight  upon  it.  It  was 
bitter  driving.  But  I'll  admit  it  brought  order  out 


66  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

of  chaos.  We  cleared  the  decks  of  the  first-day-out 
hurrah's  nest  in  jig  time.  Mercifully,  it  was  fair 
weather,  with  a  light,  steady,  fair  breeze. 

I  found  myself  working  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
a  big,  trim-bodied  mulatto.  He  was  a  sailorman, 
I  saw  at  a  glance,  and  we  stuck  together  as  much  as 
possible  during  the  morning.  He  already  bore  Fitz- 
gibbon's  mark  in  the  shape  of  a  raw  gash  on  his  fore 
head,  and  his  blood-specked  eyes  were  hot  with  min 
gled  rage  and  terror.  He  murmured  over  and  over 
again  to  me,  as  though  obsessed  by  the  words,  "Does 
yoh  know  where  yoh  am,  mate  ?  Lawd — de  Golden 
Bough!  de  Golden  Bough!" 

There  came  an  ominous  flapping  of  canvas  aloft. 
"He  done  gib  her  too  much  wheel!"  said  the  mulatto 
to  me.  "Lawd  help  him!" 

The  black-bearded  man  who  had  been  lounging 
over  the  poop  rail  watching  us  work,  and  at  whom  I 
had  been  casting  curious  and  fearful  glances  as  I 
rushed  about  beneath  his  arctic  glare,  now  swung 
about  and  damned  the  helmsman's  eye  with  soft 
voiced,  deadly  words.  The  mates'  voices  dropped 
low,  and  we  listened  to  Yankee  Swope's  storm  of 
venomous  curses  with  bated  breath. 

As  a  man  curses  so  he  is.  I  learned  that  truth 
that  morning,  a  truth  amply  tested  by  the  days  that 
came  after.  It  was  like  a  book  page  before  my 
eyes,  revealing  the  different  characters  of  the  three 
men  who  ruled  our  world,  by  comparison  of  their 
oaths. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  67 

Now  Lynch  swore  robustious  oaths  in  a  hearty 
voice.  They  enlivened  your  legs  and  arms,  for  you 
sensed  there  was  a  blow  behind  the  words  if  you 
lagged.  But  they  did  not  rasp  your  soul.  You 
knew  there  was  no  personal  application  to  them. 
They  were  the  oaths  of  a  bluff,  hard  man  who  would 
drive  you  mercilessly,  but  who  would  none  the  less 
respect  your  manhood.  They  were  the  oaths  of  the 
boss  to  the  man,  and  they  bespoke  force. 

Fitzgibbon's  swearing  always  sounded  dirty.  His 
curses  fell  about  you  like  a  vile  shower,  and  aroused 
your  hot  resentment;  the  same  words  that  came 
clean  from  Lynch's  lips,  sounded  vile  from  Fitz- 
gibbon,  because  the  man,  himself,  was  bad  through 
and  through.  His  oaths  were  the  oaths  of  a  slave- 
driver  to  the  slave,  and  they  bespoke  cruelty. 

But  the  curses  of  Captain  Swope !  God  keep  me 
from  ever  hearing  their  like  again.  They  sounded 
worse  than  harsh,  or  vile,  they  sounded  inhuman. 
The  words  came  soft  and  melodious  from  his  lips, 
but  they  were  forked  with  poison  and  viciousness. 
As  we  of  the  foc'sle  listened  to  him  curse  the  helms 
man,  that  first  morning  out,  each  man  felt  fear's  icy 
finger  touch  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  The  captain's 
words  horrified  us,  they  sounded  so  utterly  evil,  and 
foretold  so  plainly  the  suffering  that  was  to  come 
to  us. 

He  suddenly  cut  short  his  cursing,  and  turning, 
caught  sight  of  us,  men  and  mates,  standing  idle  by 
the  main  fife  rail.  "What's  this,  Misters?"  he  sang 


68  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

out.  "Going  asleep  on  the  job?  Rush  those  dogs — 
rush  them!  And  send  a  man  aft  to  the  wheel — a 
sailorman !  This  damned  Dutchman  does  not  know 
how  to  steer!'* 

Those  evenly  spoken  words  aroused  us  to  a  very 
frenzy  of  effort.  Fitzgibbon  struck  out  blindly  at 
the  man  nearest  him,  and  commenced  to  curse  us  in 
a  steady  stream.  Lynch  reached  out  and  dragged 
me  away  from  the  line  on  which  I  was  heaving.  uAft 
with  you!"  he  ordered  me.  "Take  the  wheel — 
lively,  now!" 

Lively  it  was.  I  ran  along  the  lee  deck  towards 
the  poop,  my  belly  griped  by  the  knowledge  that  the 
black-bearded  man  was  watching  my  progress.  Nine 
teen-year-old  man  I  might  be,  able  seaman  and  hard 
case,  but  I'll  admit  I  was  afraid.  I  was  afraid  of 
that  sinister  figure  on  the  poop,  afraid  of  the  soft 
voice  that  cursed  so  horribly. 

It  was  a  little  squarehead  who  had  the  wheel.  A 
young  Scandinavian,  an  undersized,  scrawny  boy. 
He  was  pallid,  and  glazy-eyed  with  terror,  as  well 
he  might  be  after  facing  the  Old  Man's  tirade,  and 
when  I  took  the  spokes  from  his  nerveless  grasp  he 
had  not  sufficient  wit  left  to  give  me  the  course.  In 
deed,  he  had  not  much  chance  to  speak,  for  Captain 
Swope  had  followed  me  aft,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  the 
wheel  he  commenced  on  the  luckless  youth. 

uYou  didn't  watch  her,  did  you?  Now  I'll  show 
you  what  happens  in  my  ship  when  a  man  goes  to 
sleep  on  his  job !"  he  purred.  Purred — aye,  that  is 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  69 

the  word.  Through  his  beard  I  could  see  the  tip  of 
his  tongue  rimming  his  lips,  as  he  contemplated  the 
frightened  boy,  much  like  a  cat  contemplating  a 
choice  mor&el  about  to  be  devoured;  and  there  was 
a  beam  of  satisfaction  in  his  eye.  Oh,  it  was  very 
evident  that  Yankee  Swope  was  about  to  enjoy  him- 
self. 

The  poor  squarehead  cowered  backward,  and 
Swope  stepped  forward  and  drove  his  clenched  fist 
into  the  boy's  face,  smashing  him  against  the  cabin 
skylights.  The  boy  cried  out  with  pain  and  fear, 
the  blood  gushing  from  his  nose,  and,  placing  his 
hands  over  his  face,  he  tried  to  escape  by  running 
forward.  Swope,  the  devil,  ran  beside  him,  shower 
ing  blows  upon  his  unprotected  head,  and  as  they 
reached  the  break  of  the  poop  he  knocked  the  boy 
down.  Then  he  gave  him  the  boots,  commenced  to 
kick  him  heavily  about  the  body,  while  the  boy 
squirmed,  and  pleaded  in  agonized,  broken  English 
for  mercy.  It  was  a  brutal,  revolting  exhibition.  I 
was  an  untamed  forecastle  savage,  myself,  used  to 
cruelty,  and  regarding  it  as  natural  and  inevitable, 
but  as  I  stood  there  at  the  wheel  and  watched 
Yankee  Swope  manhandle  that  boy  I  became  sick 
with  disgust  and  rage.  Aye,  and  with  fear,  for 
what  was  happening  to  the  squarehead  might  well 
happen  to  me! 

The  boy  ceased  to  squirm  under  the  impact  of  the 
boots,  and  his  pained  cries  were  silenced.  Then  the 
captain  ceased  his  kicking,  though  he  did  not  cease 


70  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

the  silky-toned  evil  curses  that  slid  from  his  lips. 
He  leaned  over  the  bruised,  insensible  form,  grasped 
the  clothes,  and  heaved  the  boy  clear  off  the  poop, 
much  as  one  might  heave  aside  a  sack  of  rubbish. 
So  the  little  squarehead  vanished  from  my  ken  for 
the  time  being,  though  I  heard  the  thud  of  his  body 
striking  the  deck  below. 

Swope  stood  looking  down  at  his  handiwork  for 
a  moment;  then  he  swung  about  and  came  aft,  brush 
ing  invisible  dirt  from  his  clothes  as  he  walked. 
When  he  drew  near,  I  saw  his  eyes  were  bright  with 
joyous  excitement;  yes,  by  heaven,  Captain  Swope 
was  happy  because  of  the  work  he  had  just  done;  he 
was  a  man  who  found  pleasure  in  inflicting  pain  upon 
others!  He  paused  at  my  side,  glanced  sharply  at 
me,  then  aloft  at  the  highest  weather  leech,  for  I 
was  steering  full  and  by.  But  he  found  no  cause 
for  offense,  and  after  damning  my  eye  to  be  careful, 
he  turned  away  and  commenced  pacing  up  and  down. 
I  was  in  a  furious  rage  against  the  man.  But  when 
he  looked  at  me  my  knees  felt  weak,  and  I  answered 
his  words  respectfully  and  meekly  indeed.  God's 
truth,  I  was  afraid  of  him! 

Oh,  it  was  not  his  size.  Yankee  Swope  was  only 
of  medium  build;  I  was  much  the  better  man  phys 
ically,  and  could  have  wiped  the  deck  with  him  in 
short  order — though,  of  course,  a  quick  death  would 
have  rewarded  any  such  attempt  upon  the  master 
of  the  Golden  Bough.  Nor  was  his  face  ill  to  look 
at.  Indeed,  he  had  a  handsome  face,  though  beard 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  71 

and  mustache  covered  half  of  it,  and  there  was  a 
peculiar  and  disturbing  glitter  in  his  black  eyes. 
Some  of  my  fear  was  caused,  I  think,  by  the  sinister 
softness  of  his  voice.  But  most  of  it  was  caused 
by  the  impression  the  man,  himself,  gave — call  it 
personality,  if  you  like.  It  was  much  like  the  im 
pression  of  utter  recklessness  that  Newman  gave, 
only  in  Yankee  Swope's  case  it  was  not  recklessness, 
but  utter  wickedness.  An  aura  of  evil  seemed  to 
cling  about  him,  he  walked  about  in  an  atmosphere 
of  black  iniquity  that  was  horrifying.  Any  fore 
mast  hand  would  look  after  Yankee  Swope  and  say, 
"There — he's  sold  his  soul  to  the  Devil !  He's  a  bad 
one,  a  real  bad  one,  and  no  mistake !" 

So  I  looked  after  him,  and  thought,  while  he  paced 
the  poop,  and  I  held  the  wheel.  "You're  in  for  it, 
Shreve!"  I  thought.  "This  packet  is  so  hot  she 
sizzles,  and  this  Old  Man  is  a  bad  egg,  and  no 
fatal  error!  There  will  be  bloody,  sudden  death 
before  this  passage  is  ended,  or  I'm  a  ruddy  sol 
dier  I" 

Standing  there  at  the  wheel,  with  one  eye  upon 
Captain  Swope  and  the  other  upon  my  work,  I 
found  I  owned  a  full  measure  of  rueful  thoughts. 
The  Golden  Bough  was  an  eye-opener  to  me,  used 
though  I  was  to  hard  ships  and  hard  men.  I  wished 
I  had  not  shown  myself  such  a  hard  case  back  there 
in  the  Swede's.  I  cursed  myself  for  the  vainglorious 
fool  I  was  for  having  put  myself  in  such  a  hole.  The 
only  rift  in  my  cloud  of  gloom  was  Lynch;  the  sec- 


72  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

ond  mate  seemed  favorably  disposed  towards  me, 
I  reflected,  and  had  promised  to  choose  me  for  his 
watch.  He  said  I  would  be  safe  if  I  jumped  lively 
to  my  work.  I  promised  myself  to  do  that  same, 
for  I  foresaw  a  cruel  fate  for  the  malingering  man 
aboard  that  vessel. 

From  Lynch,  my  thoughts  naturally  jumped  to 
Newman.  What  had  become  of  him?  Deserted, 
as  Lynch  had  declared?  Developed  a  craven  streak, 
and  cleared  out?  No.  My  grim,  reserved  compan 
ion  of  the  night  before  had  had  some  strong,  secret 
purpose  in  joining  the  Golden  Bough;  if  he  had  de 
serted,  I  knew  it  was  in  obedience  to  that  same  hid 
den  purpose,  and  not  from  fear  of  ship  or  officers. 

It  was  while  I  was  speculating  about  Newman's 
disappearance  that  Mister  Lynch  came  aft  and  re 
ported  that  fact  to  the  Old  Man,  in  my  hearing. 
"We  have  them  all  hustling  except  two,"  he  told 
Swope.  "One  jasper  the  Swede  dosed  with  his  black 
bottle,  and  another  one  who  has  been  sandbagged. 
I'll  have  them  on  deck  by  muster.  A  damned  seedy 
bunch,  taken  by  and  large,  Captain.  We're  one  hand 
shy!" 

"What's  that?  One  hand  shy?"  exclaimed  Swope, 
sharply. 

"Yes,  sir;  cleared  out,  I  expect.  Came  on  board 
last  night — one  of  the  two  the  Swede  told  us  about, 
who  picked  the  ship  themselves.  There's  one  of 
them  at  the  wheel.  But  the  other  one,  the  big  one, 
was  gone  this  morning.  Best  looking  beef  of  the 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  73 

entire  lot,  too.  Good  sailorman,  or  I'm  a  farmer; 
looked  like  an  officer  down  on  his  luck." 

Swope  turned  to  me.  "Where  is  the  fellow  who 
came  on  board  with  you?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  I  replied.  "He  had  disap 
peared  when  I  woke  up  this  morning." 

"Huh!  Sounds  fishy!"  was  his  response.  "Don't 
lie  to  me,  my  lad,  or  I'll  wring  your  neck  for  you !" 
He  stood  silent  a  moment,  opening  and  shutting  his 
fingers,  just  as  though  he  were  turning  the  matter 
over  in  the  palms  of  his  hands.  Then  he  cursed. 

"You  searched  about  for'ard  for  him?"  he  asked 
Lynch. 

"Yes,  sir;  he  isn't  on  board,"  the  second  mate 
answered. 

"Then  why  are  you  bothering  me?"  the  Old  Man 
wanted  to  know.  "If  the  swab  is  gone,  he's  gone. 
Drive  the  rest  of  them  the  harder  to  make  up  for 
his  loss!" 

He  resumed  his  pacing  of  the  poop,  while  Lynch 
went  forward. 

I  was  well  enough  pleased  by  the  ending  of  the 
incident.  For  a  moment  I  had  feared  the  captain 
would  blame  me  for  Newman's  absence.  With  the 
little  squarehead's  fate  fresh  in  my  mind  I  had  no 
desire  to  foul  Yankee  Swope's  temper. 

But  I  could  not  help  thinking  about  Newman. 
His  going  was  a  mystery,  and,  moreover,  I  was 
sorry  to  see  the  last  of  him.  I  wondered  why  he  had 
not  stayed.  It  was  not  fear  that  made  him  clear 


74  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

out;  of  that  I  was  certain.  What  then?  The 
lady? 

I  began  to  think  about  the  Golden  Bough's  lady. 
To  think  of  Newman  was  to  think  of  her.  I  was 
sure  she  had  drawn  him  on  board  the  ship.  Had 
she,  then,  sent  him  packing  ashore,  while  I  slept? 
What  was  he — a  discarded  lover?  Was  she  the  lass 
in  the  beggarman's  yarn?  Had  he  shipped  so  he 
might  worship  his  beloved  from  the  lowly  foc'sle? 
Or  was  he  seeking  vengeance?  Oh,  I  read  my 
Southworth  and  Bulwer  in  those  days,  and  had  some 
fine  ideas  regarding  the  tender  passion.  I  felt  sure 
there  was  some  romantic  heart-bond  between  New 
man  and  the  lady. 

I  wondered  if  the  lady  were  really  so  lovely, 
possessed  of  such  goodness  of  heart,  as  glowing 
foc'sle  report  declared.  Was  she  really  an  incar 
nate  Mercy  in  this  floating  hell?  Did  she  really  go 
forward  and  bind  up  the  men's  hurts?  Why  did 
she  not  show  herself  on  deck  this  fine  morning?  I 
wanted  to  see  this  angel  who  was  wedded  to  a  devil. 

I  heard  her  voice  first,  ascending  through  the  sky 
light.  It  thrilled  me.  Not  the  words — she  was  but 
giving  a  direction  to  the  Chinese  steward — but  the 
rich,  sweet  quality  of  the  voice.  I,  the  foc'sle  Jack, 
whose  ears'  portion  was  harsh,  bruising  oaths,  felt 
the  feminine  accents  as  a  healing  salve.  They  stirred 
forgotten  memories ;  they  sent  my  mind  leaping  back 
wards  over  the  hard  years  to  my  childhood,  and  the 
sound  of  my  mother's  voice.  No  wonder;  I  had 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  75 

scarce  once  heard  the  mellow  sound  of  a  good 
woman's  voice  since  I  ran  away  to  sea  five  years 
before,  only  the  hard  voices  of  hard  men,  and,  now 
and  then,  the  shrill  voice  of  some  shrew  of  the  water 
side. 

She  ascended  from  the  cabin,  and  stepped  out 
upon  deck,  and,  as  if  moving  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  harsh  voices  forward,  came  aft  and  stood  near 
the  wheel.  And  at  the  first  glance,  I  knew  that  foc'sle 
report  of  the  lady  was  not  overdrawn,  that  the  most 
glowing  description  did  ill  justice  to  her  loveliness. 

Her  age?  Oh,  twenty-four,  perhaps.  Beautiful? 
Aye,  judged  by  any  standard.  But  it  was  not  her 
youth,  or  the  trimness  of  her  figure,  or  the  mere 
physical  beauty  of  her  features  that  touched  the 
hearts,  and  made  reverent  the  voices  of  rude  sailor- 
men.  No;  it  was  something  beyond,  something 
greater,  than  the  flesh  that  commanded  our  homage. 

Once  since  have  I  seen  a  face  that  was  like  the 
face  of  Captain  Swope's  wife — in  a  great  church  in 
a  Latin  country.  It  was  a  painting  of  the  Madonna, 
and  the  master  who  had  painted  it  had  given  the 
Mother's  face  an  expression  of  brooding  tenderness 
as  deep  as  the  sea,  an  expression  of  pity  and  sym 
pathy  as  wide  as  the  world.  You  felt,  as  you  looked 
at  the  picture,  that  the  artist  must  have  known  life, 
its  sufferings  and  sins. 

It  was  a  like  expression  in  the  face  of  the  Cap 
tain's  lady.  She  was  no  pretty  lass  whose  sweet 
innocence  is  merely  ignorance.  She  was  a  woman 


76  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

who  had  looked  upon  life;  you  felt  that  she  had 
faced  the  black  evil  and  hideous  cruelty  in  a  man's 
world,  and  that  she  understood,  and  forgave.  You 
felt  her  soul  had  passed  through  a  fierce,  white 
heat  of  pain,  and  had  emerged  burned  clean  of  dross, 
free  of  all  petty  rancor  or  hatred.  It  glowed  in  her 
face,  this  wide  understanding  and  sympathy,  looked 
from  her  eyes,  and  sounded  in  her  voice,  and  it  was 
this  that  won  the  worship  of  the  desperate  men  and 
broken  derelicts  who  peopled  the  Golden  Bough's 
forecastle. 

Hair?  Oh,  yes,  she  had  hair,  a  great  mass  of  it 
piled  on  her  head,  black  hair.  Eyes?  Her  eyes 
were  blue,  not  the  washed  out  blue  of  a  morning 
sky,  but  the  changing,  mysterious  purple-blue  of  deep 
water.  She  turned  those  wonderful  eyes  upon  me, 
as  I  stood  there  at  the  wheel,  and  the  red  blood 
flushed  my  cheeks,  while  the  mask  of  cynical  hard 
ness  I  had  striven  so  hard  to  cultivate  fled  from  my 
face.  She  saw  through  my  pretence,  did  the  lady, 
she  saw  me  as  I  really  was,  a  boy  playing  desperately 
at  being  such  a  man  as  my  experience  had  taught 
me  to  admire.  I  was  abashed.  I*  was  no  longer 
a  hard  case  with  those  pitying,  understanding  eyes 
upon  me.  I  was  like  a  lad  detected  in  a  mischief, 
facing  my  mother. 

She  had  heard  some  talk  in  the  cabin,  or  perhaps 
she  had  overheard  Lynch's  report  to  the  Old  Man, 
for  her  words  showed  she  knew  me  as  one  of  the 
men  who  had  shipped  in  the  vessel  of  my  own  will. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  77 

"Why — you  are  only  a  boy!"  she  said,  in  a  sur 
prised  voice.  Then  her  face  seemed  to  diffuse  a 
sweet  sympathy  and  understanding.  I  can't  explain 
it,  but  I  knew  that  the  lady  knew  just  why  I  had 
shipped.  She  looked  inside  of  me,  and  read  my 
heart — and  understood!  "Oh,  Boy,  why  did  you 
do  it?"  she  exclaimed  softly.  "It  is  not  worth 
it — why  did  you  come!  Listen! — do  not  give  of 
fense;  whatever  they  do,  show  no  resentment. 
Oh,  they  are  hard — forget  your  pride,  and  be  will- 
ing!" 

She  seemed  about  to  say  more,  but  Captain  Swope 
interrupted.  When  she  appeared  on  deck,  he  affected 
not  to  see  her;  he  had  paced  past  her  twice,  but 
not  by  the  quiver  of  an  eyelash  had  he  shown  him 
self  aware  of  her  presence.  Now  he  suddenly 
paused  nearby.  Perhaps  his  sailor's  sense  of  fitness 
was  ruffled  by  the  sight  of  her  in  conversation  with 
the  man  at  the  wheel;  or,  more  likely,  his  eye  had 
noted  the  scene  occurring  forward,  and  he  wished 
to  force  it  upon  her  attention,  because  it  would 
cause  her  pain. 

uAh,  madam,  commencing  your  good  works  so 
soon?"  he  remarked,  in  a  soft,  sneering  voice. 
"Well,  from  all  signs  for'ard,  you  had  better  over 
haul  your  medicine  chest.  You  will  have  a  patient 
or  two  to  sniffle  over  to-morrow  morning." 

The  lady  shuddered  ever  so  slightly  at  Swope's 
words,  and  her  features  contracted,  as  though  with 
pain.  Just  for  an  instant — then  she  was  serenity 


78  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

again,  and  she  gazed  forward,  as  Swope  bade,  and 
silently  watched  the  mates  at  their  work. 

They  were  manhandling,  of  course.  I  might 
have  found  humor  in  the  scene  had  not  the  lady 
just  stirred  the  softer  chords  of  my  being.  Away 
forward,  by  the  foc'sle  door,  Mister  Lynch  was 
engaged  in  dressing  down  the  Cockney.  This  was 
not  a  particularly  interesting  exhibition,  though,  for 
although  the  Cockney  showed  fight,  he  was  clearly 
outmatched,  and  arose  from  the  deck  only  to  be 
knocked  down  again. 

But,  by  the  main  hatch  was  a  more  interesting 
spectacle.  There,  Mister  Fitzgibbon  was  busied 
with  the  spare,  red-shirted  man,  he  of  the  intelli 
gent  face  and  gashed  skull,  the  man  I  had  found 
so  mysteriously  occupying  the  bunk  Newman  had 
gone  to  bed  in,  and  who,  Lynch  declared,  was 
neither  sailor,  nor  bum.  There  on  the  poop,  we 
could  not  overhear  the  small  man's  words  for 
Mister  Fitz's  shrill  cursing,  but  he  seemed  to  be 
expostulating  with  the  mate.  And  he  seemed  intent 
on  forcing  past  the  mate  and  coming  aft.  He  would 
try  to  run  past  the  hatch,  and  Fitzgibbon  would 
punch  him  and  send  him  reeling  backwards.  Even 
as  we  watched,  the  mate  seized  him  by  the  collar 
of  his  red  shirt,  slammed  him  up  against  the  rail, 
and  then,  with  a  belaying  pin,  hazed  him  forward 
at  a  run. 

I  heard  the  lady  sigh — and  Swope  chuckled. 
Then  I  noticed  she  was  staring  fixedly  at  the  side 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  79 

of  the  cabin  skylight.  A  few  drops  of  the  blood 
the  Old  Man  had  drawn  from  the  little  squarehead 
were  splattered  upon  the  woodwork  and  the  deck. 
Silently,  she  regarded  them,  and  her  slight  figure 
seemed  to  droop  a  bit.  Then,  with  a  queer  little 
shrug,  she  squared  her  shoulders,  and  faced  the 
Captain  with  up-tilted  chin.  .  .  .  Aye,  and  I  sensed 
the  meaning  of  that  little  shrug,  and  the  squared 
shoulders.  It  meant  that  she  had  picked  up  her 
Cross,  and  that  she  would  courageously  bear  it  in 
pain  and  sorrow  through  the  dark  days  of  the  com 
ing  voyage.  For  I  truly  believe  the  lady  suffered 
vicariously  for  every  blow  that  bruised  a  sailor's 
flesh  on  board  the  Golden  Bough! 

"Yes,  I  must  look  to  my  medicines,"  she  replied 
to  Swope.  "I  see  they  will  be  required."  There 
was  no  active  hate  in  her  voice,  or  in  her  eyes,  but 
she  looked  at  the  man  much  as  one  looks  at  some 
loathsome  yet  inevitable  object — a  snake,  or  a  toad. 
And  she  turned  away  without  further  words,  and 
descended  to  the  cabin.  Swope  watched  her  depar 
ture  with  a  half  smile  parting  his  beard  and  mus 
tache.  Oh,  how  I  longed  to  be  able  to  wipe  that 
sneer  from  his  mouth  with  my  clenched  fist! 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  Cockney  relieved  me  at  the  wheel,  at 
one  bell,  when  the  mates  turned  the  crowd 
to  after  a  short  half  hour  for  dinner.  Oh, 
what  a  changed  Cockney  from  yestereve  1  He 
came  slinking  meekly  along  the  lee  side  of  the 
poop.  When  he  took  over  the  wheel  he  had  hardly 
spirit  enough  in  him  to  mumble  over  the  direc 
tions  I  gave  him.  His  eyes  were  puffed  half 
closed,  and  his  lips  were  cut  and  swollen.  Gone 
was  the  swanking,  swaggering  Cockney  who  had 
paraded  before  the  Swede's  bar.  Instead  there 
was  only  this  cowed,  miserable  sailorman  taking 
over  the  wheel.  That  Cockney  had  suffered  a 
cruel  double  cross  when  he  drank  of  the  black  bottle, 
and  was  hoisted  over  the  Golden  Bough's  rail.  Yes 
terday  he  was  a  great  man,  the  "Knitting  Swede's" 
chief  bully,  with  the  hard  seafare  behind  him,  and 
with  unlimited  rum,  and  an  easy,  if  rascally,  shore 
life  ahead  of  him.  To-day  he  was  just  a  shell-back 
outward  bound,  with  a  sore  head  and  a  bruised 
body;  a  fellow  sufferer  in  the  foc'sle  of  a  dreaded 
ship,  mere  dirt  beneath  the  officers'  feet.  Such  a 
fall!  Keenly  as  I  had  disliked  the  man  yesterday, 
to-day  I  was  sorry  for  him.  The  more  sorry  because 
I  felt  that  the  jocose  Swede  had  come  near  having 

80 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  81 

me  as  the  butt  of  his  little  joke,  instead  of  Cockney. 

I  scurried  forward,  intent  upon  dinner.  I  drew 
my  whack  from  the  Chinaman  in  the  gallery,  and 
bolted  it  down  in  the  empty  foc'sle.  It  was  a  miser 
able  repast,  a  dish  of  ill-cooked  lobscouse,  and  a 
pannikin  of  muddy  coffee,  and  I  reflected  glumly 
that  I  had  joined  a  hungry  ship  as  well  as  a  hot  one. 

I  finished  the  last  of  that  mysterious  stew,  and 
then  filled  and  lighted  my  pipe.  I  felt  sure  I  would 
be  allowed  the  half  hour  dinner  spell  the  rest  of 
the  crowd  had  enjoyed,  and  I  relaxed  and  puffed 
contentedly,  determined  to  enjoy  my  respite  to  the 
last  minute.  For  the  sounds  from  the  deck  indicated 
a  lively  afternoon  for  all  hands.  But  something 
occurred  to  interrupt  my  cherished  "Smoke 
O,"  something  that  caused  me  to  sit  up  sud 
denly  and  stiffly  on  the  bench,  while  my  pipe  fell 
unheeded  from  my  slackened  mouth,  and  an  un 
pleasant  prickle  ran  over  my  scalp  and  down  my 
spine. 

I  have  already  mentioned  that  the  Golden 
Bough  had  a  topgallant  forecastle;  that  is,  the 
crew's  quarters  were  away  forward,  in  the  bows 
of  the  ship,  beneath  the  forecastle  head.  It  was 
a  gloomy  cavern;  the  bright  day  of  outdoors  was 
a  muddy  light  within. 

Well,  in  the  floor  of  the  port  foc'sle,  wherein  I 
was  sitting,  was  the  hatch  to  the  forepeak,  below. 
It  was  this  yard  square  trap-door  which  caused  my 
agitation.  My  glance  fell  casually  upon  it,  and  I 


82  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

saw  it  move!  It  lifted  a  hair's  breadth,  and  I  heard 
a  slight  scraping  sound  below. 

Aye,  I  was  startled!  A  rat?  But  I  knew  that 
even  a  ship  rat  did  not  grow  large  enough  to  move 
a  trap-door.  The  ghost  of  some  dead  sailorman, 
haunting  the  scene  of  his  earthly  misery?  Well, 
I  had  the  superstitions  of  a  foc'sle  Jack,  but  I 
knew  well  enough  that  a  proper  ghost  would  not 
walk  abroad  in  the  noon  o'  day.  I  stared  fas 
cinated  at  that  moving  piece  of  wood.  It  slowly 
lifted  about  an  inch,  and  then,  through  the  narrow 
slit,  I  saw  an  eye  regarding  me  with  a  fixed  glare. 
I  glared  back,  my  amazement  struggling  with  the 
conviction  that  was  oversweeping  me;  and  then, 
just  as  I  was  about  to  speak,  Bucko  Lynch's  voice 
came  booming  into  my  retreat. 

"Hey,  you !  D'you  reckon  to  spell-o  the  whole 
afternoon?  If  you've  finished  your  scouse,  out 
on  deck  with  you — and  lively  about  it!" 

There  was  no  denying  that  request,  eye  or  no 
eye.  And  at  the  second  mate's  first  word,  the  trap 
door  dropped  shut.  I  clattered  out  of  the  foc'sle,  and 
to  work;  but  I  was  turning  that  little  matter  of  the 
f orepeak  hatch  over  in  my  mind,  you  bet ! 

It  was  near  dusk,  well  on  in  the  first  dog-watch, 
when  the  mates  let  up  with  their  driving,  and  herded 
all  hands  aft  to  the  main  deck.  The  forepeak  hatch 
had  rested  heavily  upon  my  mind  all  afternoon,  and 
I  was  tingling  with  excitement  when  I  went  aft  with 
the  rest  to  face  the  ceremony  which  always  con- 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  83 

eludes  the  first  day  out,  the  choosing  and  setting 
of  the  watches,  and  the  calling  of  the  muster  roll. 
Something  unexpected  was  about  to  happen,  I  felt 
sure. 

We  were  a  sorry  looking  crowd  gathered  there 
on  the  main  deck,  before  the  cabin,  a  tatterdemalion 
mob,  with  bruised  bodies  and  sullen  faces,  and  with 
hate  and  fright  in  our  glowering  eyes.  Those  few 
of  us  who  were  seamen  possessed  a  bitter  knowledge 
of  the  cruel  months  ahead,  the  rest,  the  majority, 
faced  a  fate  all  the  more  dreadful  for  being  dimly 
perceived,  and  of  which  they  had  received  a  fierce 
foretaste  that  merciless  day. 

Captain  Swope  came  to  the  break  of  the  poop, 
lounged  over  the  rail,  and  looked  us  over.  In  his 
hand  he  held  the  ship's  articles.  He  regarded  us 
with  a  sort  of  wicked  satisfaction,  seeming  to  draw 
delight  from  the  sight  of  our  huddled,  miserable 
forms.  Without  saying  a  word,  he  gloated  over 
us,  over  the  puffed  face  of  the  Cockney,  over  the 
expression  of  desperate  horror  in  the  face  of  the 
red-shirted  man,  over  the  abject  figure  of  the  little 
squarehead,  who  had  been  going  about  all  after 
noon  sobbing,  with  his  hand  pressed  to  his  side, 
and  whose  face  was  even  now  twisted  with  a  pain 
to  which  he  feared  to  give  voice.  Aye,  Swope  stared 
down  at  us,  licking  his  chops,  so  to  speak,  at  the 
sight  of  our  suffering;  and  we  glared  back  at  him, 
hating  and  afraid. 

Then  the  lady  appeared  at  the  poop  rail,  some 


84  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

paces  distant  from  the  Old  Man.  It  was  hearten 
ing  to  turn  one's  eyes  from  the  Old  Man's  wicked, 
sneering  face  to  the  face  of  the  lady.  There  was 
sorrow  in  that  brooding  look  she  gave  us,  and  pity, 
and  understanding.  She  was  used  to  looking  upon 
the  man-made  misery  of  men,  you  felt,  and  skilled 
in  softening  it.  There  was  a  stir  in  our  ranks  as 
we  met  her  gaze,  a  half  audible  murmur  ran  down 
the  line,  and  the  slackest  of  us  straightened  our 
shoulders  a  trifle.  The  Old  Man  sensed  the  sudden 
cheer  amongst  us,  and,  I  think,  sensed  its  cause,  for 
without  glancing  at  the  lady,  he  drawled  an  order 
to  the  mate,  standing  just  below  him. 

"Well,  Mister  Fitz,  start  the  ball  rolling — your 
first  say." 

The  mate  allowed  his  fierce,  pig  eyes  to  rove 
over  us,  and  to  my  secret  delight  he  passed  me  by. 
"Where's  the  nigger?"  he  said,  referring  to  the 
mulatto,  who  was  at  the  wheel.  "The  wheel? 
Well,  he's  my  meat." 

So  the  watch  choosing  began.  Lynch  promptly 
chose  me,  as  he  had  promised  he  would,  and  I 
stepped  over  to  the  starboard  deck.  Fitzgibbon 
chose  the  Cockney,  Lynch  picked  a  squarehead — so 
the  alternate  choosing  went,  the  mates'  skilled  eyes 
first  selecting  all  those  who  showed  in  their  appear 
ance  some  evidence  of  sailorly  experience. 

"You  I"  said  Fitzgibbon,  indicating  the  red- 
shirted  man,  and  motioning  him  over  to  the  port 
side  of  the  deck. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  85 

The  red-shirted  man,  whose  agitated  face  I  had 
been  covertly  watching,  instead  of  obeying  the  mate, 
stepped  out  of  line  and  appealed  to  Swope.  "Cap 
tain,  may  I  speak  to  you  now?"  he  asked,  in  a 
shrill,  excited  voice. 

"Eh,  what's  this?"  exclaimed  Swope,  gazing 
down  at  the  fellow.  He  lifted  his  hand  and  checked 
the  mate,  who  was  already  about  to  collar  his  prey. 
I  think  Swope  knew  just  what  was  coming,  and  he 
found  sport  in  the  situation.  "What  do  you  want, 
my  man?"  his  soft  voice  inquired. 

A  flood  of  agitated  words  poured  out  of  the  red- 
shirted  man's  mouth.  "Captain — a  terrible  mis 
take — foully  mistreated,  all  of  these  men  foully 
mistreated  by  your  officers — tried  to  see  you  and 
was  beaten.  .  .  ."  With  an  effort  he  made  his 
speech  more  coherent.  "A  terrible  mistake,  sir  I 
I  have  been  kidnapped  on  board  this  vessel!  I  am 
not  a  sailor,  I  do  not  know  how  I  come  to  be  here 
— I  have  been  kidnapped,  s?r!" 

"How  terrible!"  said  Swope.  "I  do  not  doubt 
your  word  at  all,  my  man.  Anyone  can  see  you  are 
no  sailor,  but  a  guttersnipe.  And  possibly  you 
were — er — 'kidnapped,'  as  you  call  it,  in  company 
with  the  wharf-rats  behind  you." 

"But,  Captain — good  heavens,  you  do  not  under 
stand!"  cried  the  man.  "I  am  a  clergyman — a 
minister  of  the  Gospel  I  I  am  the  Reverend  Richard 
Deaken  of  the  Bethel  Mission  in  San  Francisco!" 

The  Reverend  Richard  Deaken!     I  saw  a  light. 


86  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

I  had  heard  of  the  Reverend  Deaken  while  I  was 
in  the  Swede's  house.  The  labors  of  this  particular 
sky-pilot  were,  it  appeared,  particularly  offensive 
to  crimpdom.  He  threatened  to  throw  a  brickbat 
of  exposure  into  the  camp.  He  was  appealing  to 
the  good  people  of  the  city  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
simple  and  effective  methods  the  boarding  masters 
used  to  separate  Jack  from  his  money,  and  then 
barter  his  carcass  to  the  highest  bidder.  I  had 
heard  the  Swede,  himself,  say,  "Ay  ban  got  him 
before  election!"  And  this  is  how  the  reverend 
gentleman  had  been  "got" — crimped  into  an  out 
ward  bound  windjammer,  with  naught  but  a  ragged 
red  shirt  and  a  pair  of  dungaree  pants  to  cover  his 
nakedness;  and  he  found,  when  he  made  his  dis 
closure  of  identity,  that  the  high  place  of  authority 
was  occupied  by  a  man  who  enjoyed  and  jeered  at 
his  evil  plight. 

For,  at  the  man's  words,  the  Old  Man  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed  loudly.  "Ho,  ho,  ho! 
D'ye  hear  that,  Misters?  The  Swede  has  given 
us  a  sky-pilot — a  damned  Holy  Joe!  By  God,  a 
Holy  Joe  on  the  Golden  Bough!  Ho,  ho,  ho!" 
Then  he  addressed  the  unfortunate  man  again.  "So 
you  are  a  Holy  Joe,  are  you?  You  don't  look  it! 
You  look  like  an  ordinary  stiff  to  me !  Let  me  see 
— what  did  you  call  yourself?  Deaken?"  He 
lifted  the  articles,  and  scanned  the  names  that  rep 
resented  the  crew.  "Deaken — hey!  Well,  I  see 
no  such  name  written  here."  I  did  not  doubt  that. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  87 

Save  my  name,  and  Newman's,  I  doubted  if  any 
name  on  the  articles  could  be  recognized  by  any 
man  present.  "I  see  one  name  kere,  written  in  just 
such  a  flourishing  hand  as  a  man  of  your  parts 
might  possess — 'Montgomery  Mulvaney.'  That 
is  undoubtedly  you;  you  are  Montgomery  Mul 
vaney!" 

"But,  Captain — "  commenced  the  parson,  des 
perately. 

"Shut  up  1"  snapped  Swope.  "Now,  listen  here, 
my  man  I  You  may  be  a  Holy  Joe  ashore,  or  you 
may  not  be,  that  does  not  concern  me.  But  I  find 
you  on  board  my  vessel,  signed  on  my  articles  as 
'Montgomery  Mulvaney,  A.B.'  Yet  you  tell  me 
yourself  you  are  no  sailor.  Well,  my  fancy  man, 
Holy  Joe  you  may  be,  stiff  you  are,  but  you'll  be 
a  sailor  before  this  passage  ends,  or  I'm  not  Angus 
Swope !  Now  then,  step  over  there  to  port,  and 
join  your  watch!" 

"But,  Captain — "  commenced  the  desperate  man 
again.  Then  he  evidently  saw  the  futility  of  appeal 
ing  to  Captain  Swope.  Abruptly,  he  turned  and 
addressed  the  lady. 

"Madam — my  God,  madam,  can  you  not  make 
him  understand " 

The  lady  shook  her  head,  frowned  warningly, 
and  spoke  a  soft,  quick  sentence.  "No,  no — do  not 
protest,  do  as  they  say !"  Well  she  knew  the  futility 
of  argument,  and  the  danger  to  the  one  who  argued. 
Indeed,  even  while  she  spoke,  the  mate  took  the 


88  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

parson  by  his  shirt  collar,  and  jerked  him  roughly 
into  his  place.  And  there  he  stood,  by  the  Cock 
ney's  side,  wearing  an  air  of  bewildered  dismay 
both  comic  and  tragic. 

The  mates  renewed  their  choosing,  and  in  a  few 
more  moments  we  were  all  gathered  in  two  groups, 
regarding  each  other  across  the  empty  deck.  There 
were  fifteen  men  in  the  mate's  watch,  but,  because 
of  Newman's  absence,  only  fourteen  had  fallen  to 
Lynch. 

The  Old  Man  handed  down  the  articles  to  Mister 
Lynch.  "All  right,  Mister,  muster  them,"  he  said. 
"And  (addressing  us  generally)  if  you  don't 
recognize  your  names,  answer  anyway — or  we'll 
baptize  you  anew!" 

Lynch  held  the  papers  before  his  face.  I 
thrilled  with  a  sudden  expectancy.  Something 
startling  was  going  to  happen,  I  felt  it  in  my  bones. 
Some  clairvoyant  gleam  told  me  the  forepeak  hatch 
was  wide  open  now. 

"Answer  to  your  names  1"  boomed  Lynch's  great 
voice.  "A.  Newman!" 

"Here!"  was  the  loud  and  instant  response. 

As  one  man,  we  swung  our  heads,  and  looked 
forward.  Sauntering  aft,  and  just  passing  the  main 
hatch,  was  the  man  with  the  scar.  He  came 
abreast  of  us,  and  paused  there  in  the  empty  center 
of  the  deck. 

It  was  the  lady,  on  the  poop  above,  who  broke 
the  spell  of  silence  the  man's  dramatic  arrival  had 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  89 

placed  upon  all  hands.  She  broke  it  with  a  kind 
of  strangled  gasp.  "Roy — it  is  Roy — oh,  God!" 
she  said,  and  she  swayed,  and  clutched  the  rail 
before  her  as  though  to  keep  from  falling.  She 
stared  down  at  Newman  as  if  he  were  a  ghost  from 
the  grave. 

But  it  was  the  manner  of  Captain  Swope  which 
commanded  the  attention  of  all  hands.  He  was 
seeing  a  ghost,  too,  an  evil  ghost.  It  was  like 
foc'sle  belief  come  true — this  man  had  sold  his 
soul  to  the  Devil,  and  the  Devil  was  suddenly  come 
to  claim  his  own.  He,  too,  stared  down  at  New 
man,  and  clutched  the  rail  for  support,  while  the 
flesh  of  his  face  became  a  livid  hue,  and  his  expres 
sion  one  of  incredulous  horror. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  he  said  in  a  shrill, 
strained  voice. 

Newman's  clothes  and  face  were  smutted  with 
the  grime  from  the  peak,  but  his  air  was  debonair. 
He  answered  Captain  Swope  airily.  "Why — I 
come  just  now  from  your  forepeak — a  most  unpleas 
ant,  filthy  hole,  Angus!  And  less  recently,  I  come 
from  my  grave,  from  that  shameful  grave  of  stripes 
and  bars  to  which  your  lying  words  sent  me,  Angus ! 
I've  come  to  pay  you  a  visit,  to  sail  with  you.  Why, 
I'm  on  your  articles — I  am  'A.  Newman.7  An  apt 
name,  a  true  name — eh,  Angus?  Come  now,  are 
you  not  glad  to  see  me?" 

It  was  unprecedented,  that  occurrence.  A  fore 
mast  hand  badgering  the  captain  on  his  own  poop 


90  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

deck;  badgering  Yankee  Swope  of  the  Golden 
Bough,  whilst  his  two  trusty  buckos  stood  by  inac 
tive  and  gaping.  But,  as  I  explained,  there  was  an 
air  about  Newman  that  said  "Hands  off!"  It  was 
not  so  much  his  huge,  muscular  body;  there  was 
something  in  the  spirit  of  t{i<°  man  that  was  respect- 
compelling;  something  lethal,  a  half-hidden,  over 
powering  menace;  something  that  overawed.  He 
was  no  foc'sle  Jack,  no  commonplace  hard  case;  as 
he  stood  there  alone,  he  had  the  bearing  of  a  man 
who  commanded  large  ships,  who  directed  great 
affairs.  And  his  bearing  held  inactive  and  over 
awed  those  two  fighting  mates,  while  he  mocked 
their  god,  Swope. 

And  Swope !  The  man  became  craven  before 
Newman's  upturned  gaze.  He  was  palsied  with 
fear,  stark  fear.  I  saw  the  sweat  beads  glistening  on 
his  brow.  He  lifted  a  shaking  hand  and  wiped  them 
off.  Then  he  suddenly  turned  and  strode  aft,  out 
of  our  view,  without  a  parting  word  to  the  mates, 
without  even  the  time  honored,  "Below,  the  watch." 
In  the  quiet  that  was  over  us,  we  heard  his  foot 
steps  as  he  walked  aft.  They  were  uncertain,  like 
the  footsteps  of  a  drunken  man.  We  heard  them 
descend  to  the  cabin. 

Newman  turned  his  gaze  upon  the  lady.  She 
stood  there,  clutching  the  rail.  Her  body  seemed 
frozen  into  the  attitude.  But  her  face  was 
alive. 

Yes,  alive — and  not  with  fear  or  horror.     There 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  91 

was  a  delight  beyond  the  powers  of  description 
shining  in  her  face.  There  was  incredulity,  with 
glad  conviction  overcoming  it.  Her  eyes  glowed. 
Her  heart  was  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  Newman. 

Newman  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  rich  and  sweet, 
all  its  harsh  menace  g#he. 

"I  have  come,  Mary,"  says  he. 

She  did  not  reply  with  words.  But  they  looked 
at  each  other,  those  two,  and  although  there  were 
no  more  words,  yet  we  gained  the  impression  they 
were  communing.  Men  and  mates,  we  gaped, 
curious  and  tongue-tied.  This  was  something  quite 
beyond  us,  outside  our  experience.  Bully  Fitzgib- 
bon,  across  the  deck  from  me,  pulled  wildly  at  his 
mustache,  and  every  movement  of  his  fingers  be 
trayed  his  bewilderment. 

For  what  seemed  a  long  time  the  man  and  the 
woman  stood  silent,  regarding  each  other.  The 
dusk,  which  had  been  gathering,  crept  upon  us.  The 
lady's  face  lost  its  clear  outline,  and  became 
shadowy.  Suddenly  she  turned  and  flitted  aft.  We 
listened  to  her  light  footsteps  descending  to  the 
cabin,  as,  a  short  while  before,  we  had  listened  to 
the  Old  Man's. 

When  sound  of  her  had  ceased,  Newman,  with 
out  being  bidden,  stepped  to  the  starboard  side  and 
fell  into  line  beside  me. 

The  mate  finally  broke  the  awkward  silence. 
Lack  of  the  usual  sting  from  his  voice  showed  how 
the  scene  had  shaken  him. 


92  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Well — carry  on,  Mister!"  he  said  to  Lynch. 
"Finish  the  mustering." 

The  second  mate  read  off  the  list  of  names. 
With  the  single  exception  of  myself,  not  a  man 
responded  with  the  usual  "Here,  sir."  Not  a  man 
recognized  his  name  among  those  called;  a  circum 
stance  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  the  list  was 
doubtless  made  up  of  whatever  names  happened 
to  pop  into  the  Knitting  Swede's  mind.  But  the 
mates  did  not  care  about  responses.  As  soon  as 
Lynch  was  finished,  Fitzgibbon  commanded  shortly, 
"Relieve  wheel  and  lookout.  Go  below,  the  watch." 

We  of  the  starboard  watch  went  below.  New 
man  came  with  us,  and  he  walked  as  he  afterwards 
walked  and  worked  with  us,  a  man  apart. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  MAN  apart  Newman  was.  We  instinctively 
recognized  that  fact  from  the  beginning. 
When  we  had  gained  the  foc'sle,  the  rage 
in  our  hearts  found  expression  in  bitter  cursing  of 
our  luck,  the  Swede,  the  ship  and  the  officers.  But 
Newman  did  not  curse,  nor  did  we  expect  him  to. 
We  sensed  that  he  was  glad  he  was  at  sea  in  the 
Golden  Bough,  that  he  was  there  for  some  peculiar 
purpose  of  his  own.  He  was,  of  course,  the  domi 
nant  personality  in  the  foc'sle,  indeed,  in  the  ship. 
But,  strangely  enough,  we  did  not  look  to  him  for 
leadership.  We  regarded  him  curiously,  and  with 
awe  and  some  fear,  but  we  did  not  look  to  him 
to  lead  the  watch.  We  felt  he  was  not  one  of  us. 
His  business  on  the  ship  was  not  our  business,  his 
aim  not  our  aim. 

Because  of  this  aloofness  of  Newman,  I  sud 
denly  found  myself  occupying  the  proud  position 
of  cock  of  the  starboard  watch.  A  foc'sle  must 
have  its  leading  spirit,  and  the  cockship  is  a  posi 
tion  much  coveted  and  eagerly  striven  for  in  most 
ships,  decided  only  after  combat  between  the  fight 
ing  men  of  the  crew.  But  the  Golden  Bough  had 
an  extraordinary  crew.  The  majority  of  the  men 
in  my  watch  were  just  stiffs,  who  possessed  neither 

93 


94  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

the  experience  nor  desire  to  contest  for  leadership. 
The  few  seamen,  besides  myself  and  Newman, 
were  squareheads,  quiet  peasants  of  Scandinavia 
and  Germany,  who  felt  lost  and  unhappy  without 
somebody  always  at  hand  to  order  them  about. 

So,  within  half  an  hour  after  going  below  for  that 
first  time,  I  found  myself  giving  orders  to  men  and 
being  obeyed.  They  were  the  first  orders  I  had 
ever  given,  and,  oh,  they  were  sweet  in  my  mouth ! 
Think  of  it,  my  last  ship  I  had  been  ordered  about 
by  the  foc'sle  cock.  I  had  gone  to  the  galley  at  com 
mand  and  fetched  the  watch's  food.  Now,  scant 
days  after,  I,  a  fledgling  able  seaman,  was  lording  it 
over  the  foc'sle  of  the  hottest  ship  on  the  high  seas, 
and  ordering  another  man  to  go  after  the  supper. 
And  he  went.  I  think  I  grew  an  inch  during  that 
dog-watch;  I  know  my  voice  gained  a  mature  note 
it  lacked  before. 

I  was  a  true  son  of  the  foc'sle,  you  must  under 
stand,  with  the  habits  and  outlook  of  a  barbarian. 
This  leadership  I  so  casually  assumed  may  appear 
a  petty  thing,  but  it  was  actually  the  greatest  thing 
that  happened  to  me  since  birth.  This  little  savage 
authority  I  commenced  to  exercise  over  my  com 
panions  by  virtue  of  the  threat  of  my  fists,  was  my 
first  taste  of  power.  It  awakened  in  me  the  driving 
instinct,  the  desire  to  lead,  and  eventually  placed 
me  in  command  of  ships;  it  also  gave  me  my  first 
sense  of  responsibility,  without  which  there  can  be 
no  leadership. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  95 

During  the  supper,  and  after,  I  found  myself 
watching  and  studying  my  companions.  For  I 
feared  that  my  youth  might  later  cause  someone 
to  question  my  cockship,  and  I  meant  to  fight  for  it 
in  that  event.  But  my  scrutiny  satisfied  my  natural 
confidence.  There  was  no  man  in  my  watch  I  could 
not  handle  in  either  a  rough-and-tumble  or  stand-up 
go,  I  thought,  with  the  exception  of  Newman.  He 
would  not  interfere  with  me — his  interest  lay  aft, 
in  the  cabin,  not  in  the  foc'sle.  In  the  port  watch 
were  two  fighting  men,  my  eyes  had  told  me,  the 
Cockney  and  the  Nigger.  If  they  disputed  my  will 
in  foc'sle  affairs,  I  was  still  confident  I  should  prove 
the  best  man.  I  felt  my  tenure  of  office  was  secure, 
and  that  new,  delicious  feeling  of  power  quite 
effaced,  for  the  moment,  the  memory  of  the  day, 
and  reconciled  me  to  the  ship. 

This  scrutiny  I  gave  my  companions  was  the 
first  chance  I  had  to  fairly  size  them  up,  and  I  after 
wards  discovered  that  my  first  impressions  of  them, 
individually  and  collectively,  were  quite  correct. 

We  were,  as  you  know,  thirty  men  before  the 
mast,  fifteen  to  a  watch.  More  than  half  of  the 
£tirty  were  of  that  class  known  to  sailors  as  "stiffs." 
This  is,  they  were  greenhorns  masquerading  on  the 
articles  as  able  seamen.  And  such  stiffs!  The 
Knitting  Swede  must  have  combed  the  jails,  and 
stews,  and  boozing  kens  of  all  San  Francisco  to  as 
semble  that  unsavory  mob. 

In  my  watch,  Newman,  myself,  and  four  square- 


96  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

heads  could  be  called  seamen.  But  the  squareheads 
knew  not  a  dozen  words  of  English  between  them. 
The  other  nine  were  stiffs,  various  kinds  of  stiffs, 
broken  men  all,  with  the  weaknesses  of  dissolute 
living  stamped  upon  their  inefficient  faces. 

Except  two  men.  These  two  were  stiffs  right 
enough,  and  their  faces  were  evil,  God  knows,  but 
they  plainly  were  not  to  be  classed  as  weaklings. 
I  noticed  them  particularly  that  first  watch  below 
because  they  sat  apart  from  the  wrangling,  cursing 
gang,  and  whispered  to  each  other,  and  stared  at 
Newman,  who  was  lying  in  his  bunk. 

They  were  medium  sized  men,  as  pallid  of  face 
as  Newman,  himself,  and  their  faces  gave  one  the 
impression  of  both  slyness  and  force.  A  grim  look 
ing  pair;  I  should  not  have  cared  to  run  afoul  of 
them  on  the  Barbary  Coast  after  midnight.  I 
already  knew  the  names  they  called  each  other — the 
only  names  I  ever  knew  them  by — "Boston,"  for  the 
blond  fellow  with  the  bridge  of  his  nose  flattened, 
and  "Blackie"  for  the  other,  a  chap  as  swarthy  as 
a  dago,  with  long,  oily  black  hair,  and  eyes  too  close 
together. 

Even  as  I  watched,  they  seemed  to  arrive  at  some 
decision  in  their  whispered  conversation.  Blackie 
got  up  from  the  bench  and  crossed  over  to  New 
man's  bunk.  The  latter  was  lying  with  his  face 
to  the  wall.  Blackie  placed  his  hand  upon  New 
man's  shoulder,  leaned  over,  and  whispered  into 
his  ear. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  97 

I  saw  Newman  straighten  out  his  long  body.  For 
an  instant  he  lay  tense,  then  he  slowly  turned  his 
head  and  faced  the  man  who  leaned  over  him.  On 
his  face  was  the  same  expression  of  deadly  menace 
he  had  shown  the  Cockney,  back  in  the  Swede's 
barroom. 

Blackie  could  not  withstand  that  deadly  gaze. 
He  backed  hurriedly  away,  and  sat  down  beside  his 
mate.  Then  Newman  spoke  in  low,  measured  tones, 
and  at  the  first  word  the  babel  of  noise  stopped  in 
the  foc'sle,  and  all  hands  watched  his  lips  with  bated 
breath. 

"I  play  a  lone  hand,"  he  addressed  the  pair. 
"You  will  keep  your  mouths  shut,  and  work,  and 
play  none  of  your  deviltries  in  this  ship  unless  I 
give  the  word.  Otherwise — "  The  great  scar  on 
his  forehead  was  blue  and  twitching,  and  his  voice 
was  deadly  earnest.  He  did  a  thing  so  expressive 
it  made  me  shudder.  He  lifted  his  hand,  and  care 
lessly  placed  his  forefinger  on  the  outer  side  of  his 
bunk,  and  when  he  lifted  it,  two  of  the  myriad  cock 
roaches  that  infested  the  foc'sle  were  mashed  flat 
on  the  board. 

Blackie's  face  set  sullenly,  and  the  angry  blood 
darkened  his  cheeks.  Boston  wriggled  uneasily  on 
his  seat,  and  cleared  his  throat  as  though  about  to 
speak.  But,  at  the  instant,  Lynch's  booming  voice 
came  into- the  foc'sle,  calling  the  watch  on  deck,  and 
putting  an  abrupt  end  to  the  scene. 

There  was  an  immediate  scramble  for  the  exit 


98  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

to  the  deck.  Aye,  the  mates  had  put  the  fear  of 
the  Lord — and  themselves — into  us,  and  we  were 
all  eager  to  show  how  willing  we  were!  But  I 
heard  Fitzgibbon  without,  as  well  as  Lynch,  and, 
from  the  gossip  I  had  heard  at  the  Swede's,  I  sus 
pected  the  foc'sle  was  about  to  be  introduced  to  the 
orthodox  hell-ship  manner  of  turning  to  the  watch. 
Both  mates  would  meet  us  coming  up,  and  the  first 
man  on  deck  would  get  a  clout  for  not  being  sooner, 
and  the  last  man  a  boot  for  being  a  laggard. 

So  I  held  back,  and  allowed  another  the  honor 
of  being  first  through  the  door. 

This  honor  was  seized  by  none  other  than 
Blackie.  I  suppose  he  was  anxious  to  escape  from 
Newman's  disturbing  gaze;  anyhow,  at  the  second 
mate's  first  summons,  he  bounded  from  the  bench, 
and  tumbled  through  the  door.  I  followed  imme 
diately  after,  and  saw  my  suspicions  confirmed. 

Mister  Fitz  was  holding  a  lantern,  and  Mister 
Lynch  had  his  hands  free  for  business.  He  met 
Blackie's  egress  with  a  careless  jab  of  his  fist  that 
up-ended  the  unfortunate  stiff,  and  the  injunction, 
"Hearty,  now,  you  swabs  I  Lay  aftl" 

I  quickly  sidestepped  out  of  the  second  mate's 
range,  in  case  he  should  aim  a  blow  at  me,  and 
started  to  obey  the  command  to  lay  aft.  But  I 
had  taken  but  a  step  when  I  was  arrested  by 
Blackie's  action. 

Instead  of  adopting  the  sensible  course  of  meek 
ness  under  insult,  Blackie  rebounded  from  the  deck 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  99 

and  flew  at  Lynch.  In  the  light  cast  by  Mister 
Fitz's  lantern,  I  saw  the  gleam  of  a  knife  blade  in 
Blackie's  hand.  I  suppose  the  anger  that  Newman's 
words  had  raised  exploded  beneath  Lynch's  blow, 
and  caused  his  mad  rashness. 

But  Bully  Lynch  made  nothing  of  the  assault. 
"Ah,  would  you!"  I  heard  him  say  as  Blackie  closed 
with  him,  and  then  the  knife-hand  went  up  in  the  air, 
and  the  weapon  fell  upon  the  deck.  "I'll  teach  you !" 
said  Lynch,  and  he  commenced  to  shower  blows 
upon  the  man.  Blackie  screamed  curses,  and  fought 
back  futilely.  Lynch  commented  in  a  monotone 
with  each  of  his  thudding  blows,  "Take  that — that 
— that."  Soon  he  knocked  Blackie  cold,  across  the 
forehatch.  Then  he  turned  to  us  who  were  clustered 
outside  the  foc'sle  door,  watching.  "Aft,  with  you ! 
Jumping,  it  is,  now!" 

Aft,  we  went,  and  jumping,  too,  with  the  mate's 
laugh  in  our  ears. 


CHAPTER  IX 

I   HAD  the  second  trick  at  the  wheel  that  watch, 
from  ten  o'clock  till  midnight.     I  came  panting 
and  sweating  to  the  task,  keenly  relishing  the 
chance  of  resting.     For  there  was  to  be  no  "farm 
ing"  away  the  night  watches  in  the  Golden  Bough; 
the  second  mate  had  kept  us  upon  the  dead  run 
from  one  job  to  another,  and  I  sensed  this  was  the 
routine  of  the  ship. 

It  was  a  fine,  clean  smelling  night  of  moon  and 
stars,  and  brisk  breeze.  The  wind  had  freshened 
since  day,  and  the  vessel  was  stepping  out  and 
showing  the  paces  that  made  her  famous.  She 
had  an  easy  helm;  one  of  those  rare  craft  that 
may  be  said  to  steer  herself.  I  had  time  to  think, 
and  receive  impressions,  as  I  half  lounged  at  the 
wheel.  The  round  moon  brightened  the  world, 
the  west  pyramids  of  canvas  above  me  bellied  taut, 
the  cordage  wrung  a  stirring  whistle  from  the 
wind,  the  silver  spray  cascaded  on  the  weather  deck. 
I  watched  the  scene  with  delight,  drank  in  the  living 
beauty  of  that  ship,  and  felt  the  witchery  the  Golden 
Bough  practiced  upon  sailors'  minds  steal  over  and 
possess  me.  Aye,  she  was  a  ship !  I  was  soon  to 
curse  my  masters,  and  the  very  day  I  was  born, 
but  never,  after  that  night,  did  I  curse  the  ship. 

100 


THE  BLOOD  SH(P  101 

I  loved  her.  I  felt  the  full  force  that  night  of 
a  hoary  sea  axiom,  "Ships  are  all  right.  'Tis  the 
men  in  them." 

I  was  surprised  not  to  see  Captain  Swope  upon 
the  poop.  According  to  the  gossip  I  had  heard  at 
the  Knitting  Swede's,  this  eight  to  twelve  watch 
was  Yankee  Swope's  favorite  prowling  time.  But 
he  did  not  appear;  indeed,  he  had  not  shown  him 
self  since  he  had  so  ignominiously  surrendered  the 
deck  to  Newman.  I  was  not  disappointed.  I 
shouldn't  have  cared  if  he  remained  below  the 
entire  voyage. 

But  I  did  see  the  lady  that  watch.  When  Mister 
Lynch,  and  his  familiars  (of  whom  more  anon), 
had  gone  forward  to  a  job,  she  suddenly  stepped 
out  of  the  companion  hatch  and  flitted  aft  towards 
me.  Then,  when  she  was  close  enough  to  discern 
my  features  by  the  reflection  from  the  binnacle 
lights,  she  stopped.  I  heard  a  sort  of  gasping  sigh 
that  meant,  I  knew,  disappointment,  and  she  moved 
over  to  the  rail,  and  stood  staring  at  the  sea. 

I  knew  what  was  wrong.  She  had,  in  the  dark 
ness,  mistaken  my  very  respectable  bulk  for  New 
man's  gigantic  body.  She  had  expected  to  find 
Newman  at  the  wheel;  she  was  eager  for  a  private 
word  with  him. 

I  watched  her,  with  my  head  half  turned  on  my 
shoulder.  Aye,  but  it  thrilled  me,  the  sight  of 
her!  You  will  call  me  a  romantic  young  fool,  but 
it  was  not  that.  It  was  no  thrill  of  desire,  no  throb 


102  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

of  passion  for  her  beauty,  though  she  was  fair 
enough,  in  all  faith,  as  she  stood  there  in  the  moon 
light.  It  was  something  bigger,  something  deeper, 
a  wave  of  sympathy  and  pity  that  surged  through 
my  being,  a  feeling  I  had  never  before  felt  during 
my  savage  young  life.  A  pretty  pass,  you  say, 
when  the  ignorant  foc'sle  Jack  pities  the  captain's 
wife?  Aye,  but  the  very  beasts  of  the  field  might 
have  pitied  the  wife  of  Yankee  Swope. 

Her  body  seemed  so  slender  and  childlike.  Too 
fine  and  dainty  to  hold  the  woe  of  a  hell-ship,  and, 
Heaven  knew,  what  private  sorrow  besides.  She 
did  not  know  I  was  observing  her,  or  else  her  great 
trouble  caused  her  to  forget  my  presence,  for  she 
suddenly  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her 
shoulders  commenced  to  heave.  It  stabbed  me  to 
the  quick,  the  sight  of  that  noiseless  grief.  My  eye 
lids  smarted,  and  my  throat  bulged  uncomfortably. 
What  was  her  trouble  ?  Swope  ?  Had  he  hurt  her  ? 
Was  the  talk  I  had  heard  at  the  Swede's  correct,  did 
that  black  devil  beat  the  lady?  My  hands  grasped 
the  wheel  spokes  fiercely,  as  though  I  had  Swope's 
sleek  throat  between  my  fingers. 

I  heard  Mister  Lynch  coming  aft.  I  thought  the 
lady  would  not  wish  him  to  see  her  weeping,  and 
since  she  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  approach,  I  called 
softly  to  her,  "Lady!  They  come!" 

She  straightened,  and,  after  a  second,  came 
swiftly  to  me.  She  bent  her  face  within  the  narrow 
radius  of  the  binnacle  lights,  and  her  eyes  looked 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  103 

straight  into  mine.  Aye,  and  the  misery  and  suffer 
ing  I  saw  in  those  great  eyes! 

"God  bless  you,  boy,"  she  whispered.  "You  are 
his  friend?  Tell  him  I  come  forward  in  the  morn 
ing.  Tell  him — for  my  sake — as  he  loves  his  life 
— to  look  behind  him  when  he  walks  in  the  dark!" 

With  that  she  turned  and  sped  to  the  hatch, 
and  was  gone  below.  And  up  the  poop  ladder 
tramped  Lynch,  with  the  two  tradesmen  following 
him. 

I  have  mentioned  these  two  familiars  of  the 
second  mate  before,  and  I  had  better  explain  them. 

The  Golden  Bough  carried  neither  junior  officers, 
nor  bo'suns,  an  unusual  circumstance,  considering 
the  size  and  character  of  her  crews.  Instead,  she 
carried  two  sailmakers  and  two  carpenters,  and 
these  tradesmen  lived  by  themselves  in  the  round 
house,  ate  aft  at  a  special  table,  and,  save  when 
emergency  work  prevented,  stood  watch  and  watch. 
They  stood  their  night  watches  aft,  with  the  officer 
on  deck.  This  arrangement — unique  in  all  my  sea 
experience — provided  three  men,  awake,  armed 
and  handy,  throughout  the  night.  It  worried  us 
a  good  deal,  this  arrangement,  when,  in  due  time, 
we  began  to  talk  of  mutiny. 

But  I  was  not  talking,  or  even  thinking,  of 
mutiny  this  night,  or  for  many  nights.  Nothing  was 
further  from  my  thoughts.  Mutiny  is  a  serious 
business,  a  hanging  business,  the  business  of  scoun 
drels,  or  the  last  resort  of  desperate  men.  I  knew 


104  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

the  consequences  of  mutiny,  so  did  the  others, 
squareheads  and  stiffs,  and  we  had  not  been  suffi 
ciently  maltreated  to  make  us  ripe  for  such  an 
undertaking. 

But  there  was  mutiny  in  the  air  on  the  Golden 
Bough  from  that  very  first  day  of  the  voyage.  I 
was  soon  to  learn  that  there  was  plenty  of  rebellious 
spirit  forward,  and  shrewd,  daring  fellows  eager  to 
lead,  because  of  piratical  greed.  Also,  she  was  a 
.hell-ship.  It  was  part  of  a  hell-ship's  routine  to 
thump  the  crew  to  the  raw  edge  of  mutiny,  and 
keep  them  there. 

You  must  understand  the  Golden  Bough,  and  to 
understand  her  you  must  understand  the  knock- 
down-and-drag-out  system  in  vogue  on  board  a  good 
many  American  ships  of  that  day,  and  later.  A  hell- 
ship  was  not  just  the  result  of  senseless  brutality  on 
the  part  of  the  officers.  She  was  the  product  of  a 
system.  The  captain  rode  high  in  his  owner's 
esteem  when  he  could  point  to  the  golden  results 
of  his  stern  rule  at  sea;  the  bucko  mates  were  spe 
cifically  hired  to  haze  the  crew,  and  drew  extra 
large  pay  for  the  job. 

It  was,  of  course,  a  matter  of  dollars.  If  the 
owners  did  not  have  to  pay  wages  to  the  crew,  they 
would  save  money,  wouldn't  they?  I  suppose  some 
sleek-jowled,  comfortable  pillar  of  church  and 
society  first  thought  of  it,  and  whispered  it  into  his 
skipper's  ear.  And  the  skipper  whispered  it  to  his 
mates,  and  they  made  that  ship  so  hot  the  crew 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  105 

cleared  out  at  the  first  port  or  call,  leaving  their 
wages  behind.  So  was  the  hell-ship  born. 

For  instance:  We  were  thirty  men  before  the 
mast  in  the  Golden  Bough,  signed  on  for  the  voyage 
at  $25  a  month.  Of  course,  we  didn't  get  any  of  this 
wage  until  the  voyage  was  completed,  until  the  ves 
sel  returned  to  an  American  port.  Think  of  the 
saving  to  the  owners  if  we  deserted  in  Hong  Kong. 
They  would  have  no  labor  bill,  practically,  for  work 
ing  the  ship  from  America  to  China,  no  labor  bill 
during  the  months  ere  she  was  ready  for  sea  again. 
Then  when  ready  to  leave  Hong  Kong,  Swope  would 
ship  a  new  crew,  haze  them  as  we  were  being  hazed, 
and  they  would  clear  out  at  the  next  port. 

That  system  worked.  It  was  a  money  saver,  and 
lasted  till  the  ascendency  of  steam,  and  the  passage 
of  tardy  laws,  ended  it.  Why,  some  skippers — 
like  Yankee  Swope — -boasted  they  never  paid  off  a 
crew.  Talk  about  efficiency,  and  reducing  overhead 
costs!  Some  of  those  old  windjammer  skippers 
could  swap  yarns  with  these  factory  experts  of 
to-day,  I  tell  you! 

Of  course,  not  all  American  ships,  or  even  a 
majority  of  them,  adopted  this  system.  But  enough 
did  to  give  American  ships  an  evil  name  among 
sailors  that  has  endured  to  the  present  day. 

And  this  evil  name  helped  sustain  the  system.  It 
completed  a  kind  of  vicious  circle.  The  crew  ran 
away  from  the  hell-ship,  and  spread  the  evil  fame 
of  the  vessel  over  the  five  oceans.  Sailors  then 


106  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

would  not  willing  ship  in  her — save,  of  course,  a 
few  adventuresome  young  fools,  like  myself,  who 
sought  glory — and  the  skipper  found  himself  put 
ting  to  sea  with  a  mob  of  stiffs  in  his  foc'sle. 

Often  he  had  trouble  getting  stiffs.  In  some 
ports,  where  the  crimping  system  was  not  developed, 
the  hell  ship  waited  for  months  for  a  crew.  In 
other  ports,  like  San  Francisco,  where  the  board 
ing  master's  will  was  the  law  of  sailortown,  the 
captain  paid  over  his  blood  money,  and  the  board 
ing  master  delivered  him  his  crew,  drunk,  drugged 
and  sandbagged.  When  he  got  to  sea  he  would 
find  his  crew  composed  chiefly  of  the  very  scum  of 
the  waterside,  a  mode  of  unlicked,  lawless  ruffians, 
and  his  bucko  mates  would  need  all  their  prowess 
to  keep  them  subordinate.  Hazing  such  a  mob  was 
the  only  way  to  manage  them.  Also,  it  made  them 
run  away  and  leave  their  wages  behind. 

But  there  were  degrees  of  "heat"  in  the  hell-ships. 
The  bucko  mates  usually  contented  themselves  with 
working  the  men  at  top  speed,  depriving  them  of 
their  afternoon  watches  below,  and  thumping  the 
stiffs,  because  they  were  lubberly  at  their  work. 
This  treatment  was  sufficiently  severe  to  produce 
the  desired  results.  This  was  normal  hell-ship 
style.  The  few  sailors,  in  the  crew,  providing  they 
were  willing,  rarely  received  more  than  verbal 
abuse. 

Now,  brutality  feeds  upon  itself.  Some  officers, 
after  living  under  the  system  for  a  time,  became 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  107 

perfect  fiends.  They  came  to  enjoy  beating  up  men. 
In  some  ships,  the  dressing  down  of  the  crew  was 
a  continuous  performance,  and  sailors,  as  well  as 
stiffs,  caught  it. 

As  in  the  Golden  Bough.  God's  truth,  there  was 
blood  spilt  every  watch!  Always,  after  the  first 
day  out,  did  the  foc'sle  bunks  contain  a  miserable 
wretch  or  two  laid  up  because  of  a  manhandling. 

Yet  we  of  the  starboard  watch  were  compara 
tively  lucky.  Mister  Lynch,  our  officer,  was  what 
I  may  call  a  normal  bucko.  He  hazed  for  the 
results  rather  than  for  the  pleasure  of  hazing, 
though  I  think  he  did  get  some  satisfaction  out  of 
thumping  the  men.  You  feel  a  fine  thrill  when  you 
see  a  half  dozen  huskies  cringe  away  before  you 
with  fear  in  their  eyes.  I  imagine  it  is  the  same 
thrill  a  wild  animal  tamer  feels  as  he  faces  his 
beasts.  I  felt  this  fascinating  sensation  many 
times  after  I  had  become  a  mate  of  ships.  Lynch 
had  no  mercy  on  the  stiffs  of  our  watch;  he  ham 
mered  the  rudiments  of  seamanship  into  them  with 
astonishing  speed.  He  cuffed  a  knowledge  of  Eng 
lish  into  the  squareheads.  But  he  kept  his  hands 
off  Newman  and  me,  not  because  he  was  afraid  of 
us — I  don't  think  Lynch  feared  anything — but 
because  we  knew  our  work  and  did  it.  Oh,  I  got 
mine,  and  with  interest,  in  the  Golden  Bough,  but 
not  from  Lynch. 

The  mate  was  a  different  type.  He  was  all 
brute,  was  Fitzgibbon,  and  sailors  and  stiffs  alike 


108  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

caught  it  from  him.  A  natural  bully,  and,  like  most 
such,  at  heart  craven. 

Lynch  used  his  bare  fists  upon  the  men,  Fitz  used 
brass  knuckles.  I  don't  think  Lynch  ever  bothered 
to  carry  a  gun  in  the  daytime.  Fitzgibbon  never 
stirred  on  deck  without  a  deadly  bulge  in  his  coat 
pocket.  Lynch  stalked  among  us  by  night  or  day, 
alone,  and  unafraid.  After  dark,  the  mate  never 
stirred  from  the  poop  unless  Sails  and  Chips  were 
at  his  heels.  Lynch  was  a  bluff,  hard  man;  Fitz 
gibbon  was  a  cruel,  sly  beast. 

And  Swope !  Well,  I  cannot  explain  or  judge 
his  character.  It  would  take  a  medical  man  to  do 
that,  I  think.  He  was  his  two  mates  rolled  into 
one,  plus  brains.  He  had  fed  a  certain  strong  Sa 
distic  element  in  his  nature  until  inflicting  pain  upon 
others  had  become  his  chief  passion.  I  can  imagine 
his  perverted  soul  living  in  former  lives — as  a 
Familiar  of  the  Inquisition,  or  the  red-clad  torturer 
of  some  medieval  prince.  But  explain  him,  no.  I 
will  tell  his  ending,  you  may  judge. 

But,  of  course,  I  was  not  musing  upon  the 
economy  of  hell-ships,  or  the  characters  of  bucko 
mates,  during  the  balance  of  that  trick  at  the  wheel. 
The  lady's  message  to  Newman  possessed  my  mind. 

When  I  went  forward  at  eight  bells,  I  imme 
diately  called  Newman  aside,  and  delivered  her 
words.  He  listened  in  silence,  and  his  face  grew 
soft.  He  squeezed  my  hand,  and  whispered  some 
what  brokenly,  "Thank  you,  Jack" — an  exhibition 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  109 

of  emotion  that  startled  as  much  as  it  pleased  me, 
he  being  such  a  stern  man. 

Then,  when  I  repeated  the  latter  part  of  the 
lady's  message,  "Tell  him  ...  to  look  behind  him 
when  he  walks  in  the  dark,"  his  features  hardened 
again,  and  I  heard  him  mutter,  "So,  that  is  his 
game!" 

"What  Is?"  I  asked. 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  and  I  turned 
awav  towards  my  bunk.  But  at  that  he  reached 
out  a  detaining  hand. 

"You  are  a  big  man,  Shreve,"  he  said.  "Not  such 
a  difference  in  our  sizes  but  that  a  man  might  mis 
take  us  after  dark.  Keep  your  weather  eye  lifted, 
lad;  you,  too,  must  look  behind  when  you  walk 
in  the  dark." 

"And  what  shall  I  look  for?"  asked  I. 

"Death,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  X 

CAME  morning,  but  not  the  lady. 
And  the  foc'sle  was  in  sad  need  of  her  min 
istrations.    Quite  half  the  crew  needed  salves 
and  bandages  for  their  bruises  and  cuts,  and  there 
was,  besides,  a  more  serious  case  demanding  atten 
tion. 

When  the  starboard  watch  was  called  at  four 
o'clock,  we  heard  a  low,  insistent  moaning  in  the 
port  foc'sle.  The  man  who  called  us  said  that  the 
little  squarehead — the  lad  Swope  had  manhandled 
• — had  again  fallen  afoul  the  masters.  The  hurts 
Swope  had  inflicted  prevented  the  boy  moving 
about  as  quickly  as  Mister  Fitgibbon  desired,  so 
the  bucko  had  laid  him  out  and  walked  upon  him 
during  the  mid-watch.  When  he  was  through,  the 
lad  had  crawled  on  his  hands  and  knees  into  the 
foc'sle,  and  collapsed. 

By  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  star 
board  watch  went  below  again,  we  found  the  poor 
chap  daft,  and  babbling,  and  on  fire  with  fever. 
The  mate  gave  up  his  efforts  to  arouse  him,  and 
admitted  to  Lynch  that  "the  damn  little  stock  fish 
is  a  bit  off  color.  Needs  a  dose  o'  black  draught." 

After  breakfast,  Newman  and  I  stepped  into  the 
port  foc'sle.  The  squareheads  of  our  watch  were 

no 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  111 

already  there,  sitting  gloomily  about,  or  clumsily 
attempting  to  make  the  injured  youth  more  com 
fortable. 

He  looked  bad,  no  mistake.  Newman  shook 
his  head,  gravely,  as  we  turned  away. 

"It  is  a  task  for  her,"  he  said  to  me.  "She  has 
the  healing  gift.  The  boy  is  badly  hurt." 

A  growled  curse  took  my  answer  from  me.  It 
came  from  one  of  the  squareheads,  from  Lind- 
quist,  a  sober,  bearded,  middle-aged  man,  the  one 
man  among  them  who  could  manage  a  few  words 
of  English  conversation. 

"Koom  vrom  mine  town,"  he  said,  indicating  the 
tossing  form  in  the  bunk. 

His  blue  eyes  had  a  worried,  puzzled  expression, 
and  his  voice  bespoke  puzzled  wrath.  It  was  evi 
dent  his  slow  moving  peasant's  mind  was  grappling 
with  the  bloody  fact  of  a  hell-ship.  It  was  some 
thing  new  in  his  experience.  He  was  trying  to 
fathom  it.  Why  were  he  and  his  mates  thumped, 
when  they  willingly  did  their  work?  What  for? 
"Nils  iss  goot  boy,"  he  said  to  us.  "So  hard  he 
vork,  ja"  Then  he  bent  over  the  bunk  and 
resumed  the  application  of  his  old  folk  remedy,  the 
placing  of  wetted  woolen  socks  upon  Nils'  fore 
head. 

Before  the  foc'sle  door,  we  found  our  mob  of 
stiffs,  nursing  their  hurts,  and  watching  the  cabin. 
For,  as  all  the  world  of  ships  knew,  this  was  the 
time  of  day  the  lady  came  forward  on  her  errand 


112  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

of  mercy.    They  were  a  sorry-looking  mob,  as  sore 
of  heart  as  of  body. 

It  was  not  so  much  medical  attention  the  stiffs 
wanted,  I  think,  as  sympathy.  Bruises  and  lacera 
tions,  so  long  as  they  didn't  keep  a  man  off  his  feet, 
were  lightly  regarded  in  that  tough  crowd.  But  the 
lady's  sweet,  sane  being  was  a  light  in  the  pall  of 
brutality  that  hung  over  the  ship.  She  was  some 
thing  more  than  woman,  or  doctor,  to  those  men; 
in  her  they  saw  the  upper  world  they  had  lost,  the 
fineness  of  life  they  had  never  attained.  They  had 
all  felt  the  heartening  influence  of  her  presence 
at  the  muster;  they  craved  for  it  now  as  thirsty  men 
crave  for  water.  They  were  men  in  hell,  and 
through  the  lady  they  had  a  vision  of  heaven. 

Two  bells  went,  and  then  three,  and  the  lady  did 
not  come.  At  last  Wong,  the  Chinese  steward, 
came  forward. 

"All  slick  man  go  aft,"  says  he.     "Lady  flix  urn." 

"Is  she  not  coming  forward?"  asked  Newman. 

"No  can  do.     Slick  man  lay  aft." 

"What  have  you  there?"  I  demanded,  for  he  bore 
a  glass  filled  with  liquid. 

"Dosey.  Mlissa  Mate,  him  say  give  slick  man 
inside,"  and  he  pointed  into  the  foc'sle. 

Newman  ripped  out  an  oath.  "Give  it  here.  A 
bonesetter,  not  a  dose  of  physic  is  needed  in  there." 

He  reached  out  his  hand,  and  Wong  obediently 
surrendered  the  glass.  He  surrendered  something 
else.  I  was  standing  by  Newman's  side,  and  saw 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  113 

the  piece  of  paper  that  passed  into  his  hand  with 
the  tumbler. 

Newman's  face  remained  as  impassive  as  the 
Chinaman's  own.  He  sniffed  of  the  draught,  made 
a  wry  face  and  tossed  it,  glass  and  all,  over  the  side 
into  the  sea.  Then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went 
into  the  foc'sle.  Wong  went  aft,  followed  by  most 
of  the  watch. 

I  went  after  Newman.  He  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  his  bunk,  musing,  and  the  note  was 
open  upon  his  knee.  He  handed  it  to  me  to 
read. 

It  was  just  a  strip  of  wrapping  paper,  hastily 
scribbled  over  in  pencil.  But  the  handwriting  was 
dainty  and  feminine.  It  was  from  the  lady,  plainly 
enough,  even  though  no  name  was  signed. 

"We  have  quarreled,  and  he  has  forbidden  me  to 
leave  the  cabin,  or  go  forward  this  voyage.  He  is 
drinking,  he  is  desperate — oh,  Roy,  be  careful,  he  is 
capable  of  anything.  I  know  him  now.  Do  not 
come  aft  with  the  sick" 

I  looked  at  Newman  inquiringly.  But  he  said 
nothing  to  supplement  the  note.  He  took  it  from 
me,  lighted  a  match,  and  burned  it  up.  I  guessed 
he  was  disappointed,  that  he  had  counted  upon  the 
lady  coming  forward. 

"And  did  the  little  dear  write  ?  And  what  did  she 
say,"  drawled  an  unpleasant  voice  behind  us. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

I  swung  about  with  a  start,  and  saw  Boston  and 
Blackie  lying  in  their  bunks,  one  above  the  other. 
Boston  had  spoken,  but  they  were  both  eyeing 
Newman. 

The  dangerous  light  came  into  Newman's  face. 
"Mind  your  own  business!"  he  said,  shortly. 

There  was  a  moment  of  uncomfortable  silence, 
broken  by  Boston,  with  a  wheedling  note  in  his 
voice. 

uAw,  say,  Big  'Un,  don't  get  horstile.  We  didn't 
mean  to  horn  in.  We  just  want  to  be  friends;  we 
feel  hurt,  Blackie  an'  me,  at  the  way  you're  giving 
us  the  go  by.  We're  all  on  the  dodge  together, 
ain't  we?  And  we  got  a  rich  lay,  I  tell  you! 
Blackie  and  me  has  it  all  figured  out,  but  we  need 
you  to  lead,  Big  'Un.  What  d'ye  want  to  pal  with 
that  cub  for,  when  two  old  friends  like  Blackie  an' 
me  are  ready  and  willing  to  work  for  you?  We  got 
a  rich  lay,  I  tell  you !" 

"Damn  your  thieving  schemes,"   said  Newman. 

"Aw,  now,  bring  the  cub  in,  if  you  like,"  per 
sisted  Boston.  "He's  a  game  'un." 

Blackie,  the  hot-headed,  spoke  up,  resentfully. 
He  lifted  his  battered  face  on  his  elbow,  and  lisped 
through  the  gap  Lynch's  fist  had  made  in  his  teeth. 
"Number  seven  hundred  and  three  wasn't  so  finicky 
about  his  pals  the  time  he  jumped  the  dead  line,  and 
ditched  the  Big  House!" 

Newman  crossed  the  foc'sle  with  one  catlike 
bound.  He  got  Blackie  by  the  throat  and  yanked 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  115 

him  from  the  bunk.    Then  he  shook  him,  and  threw 
him  into  the  farther  corner. 

"There  will  be  no  scheme  set  on  foot  from  this 
foc'sle,  save  the  one  I  father,"  he  told  the  pair  in 
his  cool,  level  voice.  "I  gave  you  your  answer 
last  night.  Now,  if  you  two  come  between  me  and 
my  goal,  in  this  ship,  as  God  lives,  I'll  kill 
you!" 

With  that,  he  swung  about  and  stepped  into  the 
port  foc'sle. 

"Come  on,  Shreve,"  he  said  to  me,  over  his 
shoulder.  "Lend  a  hand.  You  and  I  must  attend 
to  this  boy." 

Presently  I  was  standing  by  Nils'  bunk,  together 
with  the  squareheads,  marveling  at  the  gentleness 
with  which  Newman's  huge  hands  handled  the  suf 
ferer.  It  was  an  exhibition  of  practiced  skill.  The 
feeling  was  strong  on  me  that  moment  that  New 
man  had  gained  this  skill  in  no  foc'sle,  but  in  a 
cabin,  where  as  master  he  had  doctored  his  own 
sick. 

But,  after  all,  he  was  no  surgeon,  and  there  was 
little  he  could  do  for  the  lad.  Newman  undressed 
him — the  squareheads  had  not  been  able  to  accom 
plish  this  feat,  because  of  the  pain  their  rough  hand 
ling  caused — and  bared  the  poor  broken  body  to 
view.  The  squareheads  cursed  deeply  and  bitterly 
at  the  sight  of  the  shocking  bruises  on  the  white 
flesh.  Nils  was  delirious,  staring  up  at  us  with  bril 
liant,  unseeing  eyes,  and  babbling  in  his  own  lingo. 


116  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"He  say,  mudder,  mudder,"  commented  Lindquist 
in  a  choked  voice.  "I  know  his  mudder." 

Newman  explored  the  hurts  with  his  finger,  and 
his  gentle  touch  brought  gasps  of  agony.  His  face 
grew  very  grave.  Then  he  ripped  up  a  blanket, 
and  with  my  assistance,  skillfully  bandaged  Nils 
about  the  body. 

When  he  was  through,  he  looked  Lindquist  in 
the  eyes,  and  shook  his  head. 

"So?"  said  Lindquist.  His  eyes,  so  stupid  and 
dull  a  while  before,  were  blazing  now.  Aye,  it  was 
evident  his  law-abiding  mind  had  arrived  at  a  law 
less  decision;  his  lowering  face  boded  no  good  for 
the  brute  who  had  maltreated  his  young  friend. 
"Gott,  if  he  die!"  he  said.  It  was  a  full-mouthed 
promise  to  avenge,  that  sentence. 

As  we  left,  I  became  aware  that  Boston  and 
Blackie  had  followed  Newman  and  me,  and  had 
witnessed  the  scene.  Said  Boston  to  his  mate,  in 
a  low  voice  that  I  just  caught, 

"If  the  kid  croaks  we'll  have  the  squareheads 
with  us." 


CHAPTER  XI 

CAPTAIN  SWOPE  did  not  emerge  from  the 
cabin  that  day,  nor  the  next  day,  nor  the  next. 
But  we  obtained  plain  confirmation  of  the 
lady's  word  he  was  drinking,  when,  every  morning 
the  Chinese  cabin  boy  brought  empty  bottles  out 
on  deck  and  heaved  them  overboard.     Whereat, 
all  the  thirsty  souls  forward  clicked  their  tongues 
and  swore. 

But  this  interim,  during  which  Yankee  Swope 
stayed  below,  and  moped  and  drank,  was,  you  may 
be  sure,  no  peaceful  period  for  the  foc'sle.  The 
Golden  Bough's  mates  could  be  trusted  to  hustle  the 
crowd  whether  or  not  the  skipper's  eyes  were  upon 
them.  There  was  bloody,  knock-about  work  with 
belaying  pin  and  knuckles,  while  the  ship  settled 
down  into  deep  sea  form,  and  the  mob  of  stiffs 
learned  to  keep  out  of  its  own  way  and  hand  the 
right  rope  when  yelled  at. 

.  Since  leaving  port,  the  Golden  Bough  had  been 
standing  a  southerly  course,  on  a  port  tack.  Now, 
on  the  third  day,  the  wind  hauled  around  aft,  and 
came  on  us  from  the  nor'east,  as  a  freshening  gale. 
We  squared  away,  and  went  booming  down  before 
it,  true  clipper  style.  By  nightfall  it  was  blowing 
hard,  and  the  kites  were  doused. 

117 


118  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

The  night  came  down  black  as  coal  tar,  with  an 
overcast  sky,  and  lightning  playing  through  the 
cloud  in  frequent,  blinding  flashes.  My  watch  had 
the  deck  from  eight  to  twelve,  and  Mister  Lynch 
(and  his  satellites,  Chips  and  Sails)  kept  us  hustling 
fore  and  aft,  sweating  sheets,  and  taking  a  heave 
at  this  and  that. 

Few  watches  in  my  life  stand  out  so  sharply  in 
my  memory.  And  it  was  not  the  near  tragedy  that 
concluded  it  that  so  impressed  my  mind;  it  was 
the  sailing.  For  Lynch  was  cracking  on,  and  there 
was  no  faint-hearted  skipper  interfering  with  his 
game.  Indeed,  had  Swope  been  on  deck  before  the 
hour  when  he  did  come  up,  I  do  not  think  he  would 
have  protested.  This  reckless  sailing  was  what 
made  half  the  fame  of  the  Golden  Bough.  It  was 
said  that  Yankee  Swope  sailed  around  Cape  Stiff 
with  padlocks  on  his  topsail  sheets !  And  this  night 
we  showed  the  gale  the  full  spread  of  her  three 
t'gan's'ls,  and  the  ship  raced  before  the  wind  like 
a  frightened  stag. 

Oh,  I  had  seen  sailing  before.  I  had  been  in 
smart  ships,  had  run  my  Easting  down  in  southern 
waters  more  than  once,  had  made  the  eastern  pas 
sage  of  the  Western  Ocean  with  the  winter  storm 
on  my  back  the  whole  distance.  But  this  night  was 
my  introduction  to  the  clipper  style,  where  the  offi 
cers  banked  fifty  per  cent  on  their  seamanship,  to 
avert  disaster,  and  fifty  per  cent  on  blind  chance 
that  the  top  hamper  would  stand  the  strain.  An 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  119 

incautious  system?  Aye,  but  cautious  men  did  not 
sail  those  ships. 

It  was  so  dark  we  had  to  feel  our  way  about  the 
decks.  I  could  not  see  the  upper  canvas,  but  I  could 
imagine  it  standing  out  like  curved  sheet  iron. 
Every  moment  I  expected  to  hear  the  explosion  of 
rent  canvas,  or  the  rattle  of  falling  gear  on  the 
deck.  Not  I  alone  thought  so,  for  once  when  Chips 
and  Sails  went  to  windward  of  me,  I  heard  Sails 
bawl  to  his  companion, 

"He'll  have  the  spars  about  our  ears  before  the 
hour  is  out!" 

"Not  he,"  responded  Chips.  "Trust  Lynch  and 
his  luck!" 

True  enough.  The  hour  passed,  and  another, 
and  Lynch  still  carried  on  without  mishap.  Indeed, 
the  wind  had  moderated  a  bit. 

Throughout  the  watch  I  kept  close  by  Newman's 
side.  That  warning,  to  look  behind  me  in  the  dark, 
had  by  no  means  escaped  my  mind.  When  we  came 
on  deck,  Newman  said  to  me,  "A  good  night  for 
a  bad  job,  Jack!  Keep  your  eyes  open!"  Small 
advice  on  such  a  night,  when  a  man  could  not  have 
seen  his  own  mother,  stood  she  two  feet  distant! 

That  warning  had  puzzled  me,  and  I  did  not  dare 
question  Newman  concerning  it.  He  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  one  could  question.  But  what  was 
likely  to  lurk  in  the  dark?  "Death,"  said  he.  Did 
that  mean  he  feared  a  stealthy  assassination,  a 
knife  thrust  from  the  dark?  Did  he  think  that 


120  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Captain  Swope  was  planning  the  cold-blooded  mur 
der  of  an  able  seaman? 

There  was  the  question.  In  one  way,  it  opposed 
my  reason.  Of  course,  this  was  a  hell-ship,  and  mur 
der  might  very  well  take  place  on  board.  But  that 
the  captain  should  deliberately  plot  the  removal  of 
a  foc'sle  hand!  Able  seamen  were  not  of  such 
importance  in  a  hell-ship. 

Yet  Newman  was  more  than  a  foremast  hand. 
God  knew  who  he  was,  or  what  his  business  in  the 
ship,  but  it  was  plain  he  was  Swope's  enemy,  and 
there  was  a  private  fued  between  them.  His  mere 
appearance  had  caused  the  Old  Man  to  run  below, 
and  remain  hidden  for  three  days  1  ...  There  was 
the  lady.  She  was  Newman's  friend.  She  knew 
the  Old  Man's  moods,  and  she  was  positive  about 
it.  The  warning  was  doubtless  well  founded,  I  con 
cluded.  And  Newman  was  my  friend,  my  chum 
for  the  voyage,  I  hoped.  If  there  were  danger 
for  him  in  the  dark,  it  were  well  his  friend  stayed 
handy  by.  So,  throughout  that  black  watch,  I 
stuck  as  close  as  possible  to  his  elbow. 

Six  bells  went  when  the  watch  was  forward  at  a 
job.  Suddenly,  down  the  wind,  came  a  clear,  musical 
hail,  from  aft. 

"Ahoy—  Mister!" 

"B'Gawd,  the  Old  Man's  on  deck!"  ejaculated 
Lynch  to  his  assistants.  Then  he  bellowed  aft, 
"Yes,  sir?" 

"Reef  t'gan's'ls,  Mister!"  came  the  command. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  121 

"Eh?"  blankly  exclaimed  Lynch.  "Now,  what  is 
he  up  to?"  But  he  yelled  back  his  acknowledg 
ment,  "Reef  t'ganVls,  sir!" 

When  the  sails  were  clewed  up,  Newman  and  I 
were  ordered  aloft  on  the  mizzen.  The  stiffs  were 
useless  aloft  on  such  a  night,  and  the  fore  and  main 
were  given  the  handful  of  squareheads  and  the  two 
tradesmen. 

When  we  jumped  for  the  sheer  pole  we  passed 
within  a  foot  of  a  figure  lounging  across  the  rail 
at  the  poop  break,  and  we  knew  it  was  Swope. 
There  had  been  no  word  from  him  since  the  initial 
order. 

It  was  so  dark  we  did  not  see  his  face.  As  we 
swung  up  into  the  mizzen  rigging,  Newman  shouted 
words  in  my  ear  that  I  knew  the  wind  carried  to 
the  captain. 

"The  devil  is  abroad,  Jack,  and  there  is  hell  to 

Pay!" 

And  when  we  had  gained  the  yardarm,  he  added, 
"It  is  coming,  Jack;  one  hand  for  yourself  and  one 
for  the  ship !" 

But  he  did  not  act  upon  the  advice  himself.  No 
more  did  I.  Indeed,  one  needs  both  arms  and  a 
stout  back  to  pass  reef  points.  We  leaned  into  the 
work,  put  our  united  brawn  into  it,  and  progressed 
briskly.  All  the  while  I  stared  beneath  me,  into 
the  whistling,  inky  void,  trying  to  discern  that  spot 
on  the  deck  below,  where  the  braces  that  held  this 
yard  steady  were  made  fast.  I  felt  this  lofty  spot 


122  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

was  no  healthful  abiding  place  for  Newman  and  me. 
I  had  a  premonition  of  what  was  coming! 

Yet,  when  it  did  come,  I  was  caught  unawares.  I 
felt  the  wood  I  leaned  on  draw  suddenly  away  from 
me.  There  came  a  jerk  that  nigh  snapped  my  neck. 
My  feet  left  the  foot  rope,  and  I  was  falling,  head 
foremost,  into  the  blackness.  They  said  I  screamed 
loudly.  I  was  not  conscious  I  opened  my  mouth. 

It  is  strange,  the  trick  a  thing  like  that  can  play 
-.with  one's  senses.  I  seemed  to  be  falling  for  mo 
ments,  an  immeasurable  distance.  Actually,  the 
whole  thing  occurred  in  about  a  second's  space,  and 
my  feet  just  about  cleared  the  yardarm  when  New 
man's  grip  fastened  upon  my  ankle. 

My  face  was  buried  in  the  smothering  folds  of 
the  threshing  sail;  then  Newman  had  drawn  me  up 
until  my  body  balanced  on  the  yard.  A  second  later 
my  feet  were  again  on  the  foot  rope,  and  my  hands 
fastened  for  dear  life  to  the  jackstay. 

I  was  conscious  of  using  my  voice  then.  Aye — 
but  I  swore !  "By  heaven,  he  let  go  the  port  brace  1" 
I  yelled  to  Newman. 

For  answer,  Newman  grabbed  me  around  the 
waist,  just  as  a  fork  of  lightning  zigzagged  through 
the  sky.  For  the  briefest  instant,  the  ship  stood  out 
in  a  bright  light.  Far  below  us,  on  the  deck,  we  saw 
Captain  Swope  standing,  looking  up  at  us.  Then 
blackness  again.  I  felt  myself  for  a  second  time 
jerked  clear  of  my  foothold — to  immediately  wrap 
my  limbs  about  a  wire  rope.  For  Newman  had 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  123 

leaped  for  a  backstay,  as  the  yard  swung  close,  and 
carried  me  with  him. 

For  a  moment  we  hung  there,  one  above  the  other, 
then  we  commenced  to  slide  to  the  deck.  Mister 
Lynch's  voice  came  booming  up  to  us,  and  we  saw 
the  light  of  a  lantern  bobbing  about.  A  moment 
later  we  clattered  off  the  poop,  on  to  the  main  deck. 

A  group  was  bunched  together  in  the  lee  of  the 
cabin,  Captain  Swope,  and  Lynch  and  the  trades 
men.  Lynch  carried  the  lighted  hurricane  lamp  that 
hung  handy  in  a  sheltered  nook  during  the  night. 
Forward,  a  respectful  distance,  the  stiffs  of  the 
watch  made  a  vague  blot  in  the  gloom.  As  we  came 
down  the  poop  ladder  a  voice  I  recognized  as  Bos 
ton's  called  to  us  from  this  last  group,  "He  tried 
to  get  you,  Big  'Un!"  So  I  knew  that  the  lightning 
flash  had  revealed  to  the  watch  what  it  had  revealed 
to  us. 

"The  brace  was  slipped,"  said  Newman  to  Lynch. 

"I  know,"  replied  the  second  mate,  shortly.  There 
was  contempt  in  his  voice,  and  I  knew,  when  I  looked 
at  his  grim,  disdainful  face,  that  he  had  had  no  hand 
in  the  affair.  Bucko  Lynch  might  kill  a  man  in 
what  he  considered  the  line  of  duty,  but  snapping 
men  off  a  yardarm  was  not  his  style.  But  I  also 
knew  that  he  was  an  officer  of  an  American  ship, 
and  would  consider  it  his  duty  to  back  up  his  cap 
tain  no  matter  what  villainy  the  latter  attempted. 

Swope  smiled  sweetly  at  us.  One  might  think  that 
a  man,  even  a  ship's  autocrat,  when  detected  in  an 


124  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

attempt  at  cold-blooded  murder,  would  make  some 
specious  explanation  of  his  act.  Not  Swope.  No 
hypocritical  contrition  showed  in  the  face  the  lantern 
lighted;  rather,  a  cool,  pitiless  inhumanity  that 
squeezed  my  bowels,  even  while  rage  surged  within 
me. 

We  had  understood  that  Swope  was  drunk  for  the 
past  three  days,  but  the  smiling  features  showed  no 
mark  of  his  dissipation.  Neither  did  he  exhibit  any 
of  the  fear  he  had  shown  at  Newman's  sudden  ap 
pearance  the  other  afternoon.  It  was  plain  that 
Captain  Swope  had  taken  heartening  counsel  with 
himself  regarding  the  danger  he  might  incur  from 
Newman's  presence  on  board.  Whatever  was  the 
mysterious  feud  between  the  two,  Swope  had  the  up 
per  hand.  He  rested  secure  in  the  knowledge  of 
his  power  as  captain,  in  his  knowledge  of  Newman's 
helplessness  as  a  mere  foremast  hand. 

And  so  he  smiled,  and  said  musingly,  and  dis 
tinctly,  to  Newman,  "A  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile, 
eh?  But  it  is  a  long  passage  I"  The  cool  insolence 
of  it  I  God's  truth,  it  chilled  me,  this  careless  con 
fession  of  the  deed,  and  threat  of  what  the  future 
held.  And  then,  as  though  to  remove  the  last  pos 
sible  doubt  in  our  minds  that  the  slipping  of  the  brace 
was  an  accident,  that  the  whole  job  of  striking  sail 
was  but  a  pretext  to  get  Newman  aloft,  Swope 
turned  to  the  second  mate. 

"I  think  she'll  stand  it,  Mister,"  he  said.  "You 
may  as  well  shake  out  the  t'gan's'ls  again!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

I    WENT    below    after    that    watch    with    the 
thought  of  mutiny  stirring  in  the  back  of  my 
mind.     But  in  the  back,  not  the  front,  mind 
you.     For  mutiny  on  a  ship  is  a  dreadful  business, 
as  I,  a  sailor,  well  knew.    A  neck-stretching  business  I 
Yet  there  the  thought  was,  and  it  stuck,  and  pecked 
ever  more  insistently  at  my  consciousness  as  the  days 
passed. 

Of  course,  I  was  wild  with  rage  at  Swope's  at 
tempt.  And  I  was  anxious  on  Newman's  account. 
You  see,  I  looked  upon  him  as  my  chum,  and — had 
he  not  saved  my  life,  up  there,  on  the  yard?  It  is 
true,  there  were  none  of  the  usual  manifestations  of 
foc'sle  friendship  between  us;  we  did  not  swap  to 
bacco,  and  yarns,  and  oaths.  Newman  did  not  per 
mit  such  intimacy;  always  he  was  a  man  apart,  a 
marked  man.  But,  from  the  very  first,  the  man's 
personality  dominated  me,  and,  after  that  night  on 
the  yardarm,  I  felt  a  passionate  loyalty  to  him.  He 
was  not  insensible  to  my  friendliness,  I  knew;  he 
welcomed  it,  and  found  comfort  in  it. 

If  he  had  come  to  me  that  night,  or  afterwards, 
with  a  scheme  for  taking  the  ship,  I  should  have 
joined  in  straightway,  no  matter  how  harebrained  it 
might  seem.  But,  of  course,  he  did  no  such  thing. 

125 


126  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Indeed,  he  never  mentioned  the  incident  to  me,  after 
we  left  the  deck  that  night.  For  all  of  him,  it  might 
never  have  happened.  And,  you  may  be  sure,  I  did 
not  intrude  upon  his  reserve  with  queries,  or  reminis 
cence. 

Nor  did  the  rest  of  the  watch  approach  him. 
Rather  did  they  avoid  him,  as  a  dangerous  person. 
With  that  thought  of  rebellion  in  my  mind,  I 
watched  my  watchmates  that  night  with  more  toler 
ance  than  my  eyes  had  yet  shown  them.  I  wanted 
to  judge  what  stuff  was  in  them. 

The  stiffs  whispered  together  and  eyed  us  fur 
tively.  I  did  not  like  the  stuff  I  saw  in  them.  Rough, 
lawless,  held  obedient  only  by  fear,  the  scum  of  the 
beach — I  did  not  like  to  imagine  them  sweeping 
along  the  decks  with  restraint  cast  aside,  and  pas 
sions  unleashed.  The  squareheads  were  a  different 
kind.  Good  men  and  sailors,  here,  but  men  whose 
habit  of  life  was  submission.  Yet,  I  saw  they  were 
gravely  disturbed  by  what  had  taken  place  on  deck. 
No  wonder.  I  knew  their  minds.  "Who  is  safe  in 
this  ship?"  they  thought.  "Who,  now,  may  go  aloft 
feeling  secure  he  will  reach  the  deck  again,  alive  and 
unhurt?"  Those  squareheads  had  proof  of  the 
mate's  temper  in  the  person  of  their  young  lands 
man,  lying  broken  in  his  bunk.  Now,  they  had  proof 
of  the  skipper's  temper. 

My  eyes  met  those  of  Boston  and  Blackie,  eyeing 
me  speculatively,  and  the  contact  brought  my  mus 
ing  to  a  sharp  turn.  What  did  Boston  and  Blackie 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  127 

think  of  it?  I  could  tell  from  their  bearing  that, 
for  some  reason,  they  were  pleased.  I  thought  of 
them  as  fighting  material — and  did  not  relish  the 
thought.  Fighters,  yes,  but  foul  fighters.  I  did  not 
like  to  think  of  being  leagued  with  them  in  an  enter 
prise.  And  what  was  this  "rich  lay"  they  spoke  of? 
What  was  this  game  they  were  willing  I  should  en 
ter?  Did  they,  too,  think  mutiny? 

These  thoughts  plagued  me  for  days,  and  I  found 
no  answer,  or  peace  of  mind.  Hell  was  preparing 
in  that  ship,  I  felt  it  in  my  bones;  and  we  were  get 
ting  enough  hell  already,  with  drive,  drive,  drive, 
from  dawn  to  dawn.  Yet,  there  were  rifts  in  the 
clouds. 

For  one  thing,  Lynch  quieted  my  mind  of  the  fear 
that  the  Old  Man  would  again  get  Newman  aloft  at 
night,  and  attempt  his  life  with  better  success.  The 
very  next  day,  Lynch  came  to  the  foretop,  where 
Newman  and  I  were  working  on  the  rigging.  He 
examined  the  work,  and  then  said,  abruptly,  to  New 
man, 

UI  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  affair  last  night." 

"I  know  you  had  not,"  answered  Newman. 

"I  give  you  warning — he  intends  to  get  you,"  con 
tinued  the  second  mate.  uBut  he'll  not  get  you  that 
way  in  my  watch.  From  now  on,  you  need  not  go 
aloft  after  dark." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Newman. 

"You  need  not,"  was  the  response.  "I'm  not  do 
ing  this  for  your  sake.  Well — you  understand.  And 


128  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

make  no  mistake,  my  man,  as  to  my  position;  I  am 
a  ship's  officer,  and  if  trouble  comes  it  will  find  me 
doing  my  duty  by  my  captain's  side." 

"There  will  be  no  trouble  if  I  can  prevent  it,  sir," 
was  Newman's  reply. 

"Then  you  have  your  work  cut  out  for  you.  You 
— understand  ?" 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  said  Newman. 

I  watched  Mister  Lynch  leap  nimbly  to  the  deck, 
and  go  striding  aft,  a  fine  figure  of  a  man.  "Why, 
he's  on  the  square!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  he  is  not  like  the  others,"  said  Newman. 
"She  says  his  heart  is  clean." 

She  says!  Well,  it  was  hardly  news  to  me.  I 
was  sure  he  was  in  communication  with  her.  He 
always  made  it  a  point  to  meet  Wong,  the  steward, 
when  the  latter  came  forward  to  the  galley.  And 
there  were  times  in  the  night  watches  below  when  his 
bunk  was  empty.  He  was  a  great  hand  for  pacing 
the  deck  in  lonely  meditation,  and  for  stowing  him 
self  away  and  brooding  alone  in  odd  corners.  We 
did  not  spy  upon  him,  or  force  ourselves  upon  him, 
you  may  be  sure.  Not  upon  Newman. 

The  lady  was,  we  understood,  forbidden  by  the 
Old  Man  to  come  forward.  The  daily  visits  to  our 
dogs'  kennel,  dispensing  cheer  and  mercy,  and  for 
which  she  was  famous  the  world  around,  were  to  be 
denied  us  this  voyage.  Because  of  Newman's  pres 
ence.  We  missed  the  visits ;  they  would  have  bright 
ened  the  cruel  days.  But  I  don't  think  any  man  felt 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  129 

resentful  against  Newman.  Our  sympathies  were 
all  with  the  lady,  and  the  lady's  feelings,  we  knew, 
were  all  with  Newman.  So  it  was  upon  Yankee 
Swope's  unheeding  head  we  rained  our  black  curses. 

The  lady  was  doing  what  she  could  to  aid  us. 
She  held,  every  morning,  a  levee  in  the  cabin  for  the 
lame  and  sick,  all  who  could  drag  themselves  aft, 
and  tended  them  skillfully.  But  this  did  not  help 
the  bedridden  ones.  It  did  not  help  young  Nils. 

But  nothing  could  have  helped  Nils.  The  bucko 
had  done  his  work  too  well.  Not  once  did  the  boy 
rally;  daily  and  visibly  his  life  ebbed. 

You  must  understand  the  callous  indifference  of 
the  afterguard  to  realize  its  effect  upon  the  foc'sle. 
The  boy  lay  dying  for  weeks,  and  not  once  did  the 
Captain  come  forward  to  look  at  him.  Medicines 
and  opiates  were  sent  forward  by  the  lady,  but, 
though  they  eased  the  chap,  they  were  powerless  to 
salvage  his  wrecked  body.  Newman  said  Nils'  ribs 
were  sticking  into  his  lungs. 

Lindquist  went  aft  to  ask  permission  to  move  the 
boy  to  the  cabin,  where  the  lady  could  nurse  him. 
Swope  blackguarded  the  man,  and  Fitzgibbon  kicked 
him  forward.  Lynch  ignored  the  very  existence  of 
Nils — the  lad  was  not  of  his  watch,  and  the  whole 
matter  was  none  of  his  business.  But  Mister  Fitz 
came  into  the  port  foc'sle  every  day,  to  make  sure 
Nils  could  not  stand  on  his  feet  and  turn  to ;  and  on 
deck  he  would  sing  out  to  his  watch  that  Nils'  fate 
was  the  fate  of  each  man  did  he  not  move  livelier. 


130  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Jump,  you  rats!  I'll  put  you  all  in  your  bunks !" 
he  would  tell  them. 

The  sight  of  their  young  landsman  in  agony 
stirred  the  berserk  in  the  squareheads  of  the  crew. 
It  made  them  ripe  for  revolt,  drove  them  to  lawless 
acts,  as  their  shanghaiing  and  the  brutality  of  the 
officers  could  not  have  done. 

These  squareheads  were  no  strangers  to  each 
other.  They  were  all  friends  and  old  shipmates. 
The  Knitting  Swede  had  crimped  them  all  out  of  a 
Norwegian  bark,  plied  them  with  drink,  and  put  them 
on  board  the  Golden  Bough  after  he  had  promised 
to  find  them  a  high-waged  coasting  ship. 

Young  Nils  was  a  sort  of  mascot  in  this  crowd. 
He  was  making  his  first  deep-water  voyage  under 
their  protection  and  guidance.  Most  of  them  were 
his  townsmen;  they  had  known  him  from  babyhood. 
As  Lindquist  said  to  me,  his  blue  eyes  filled  with 
pain  and  rage,  "I  know  his  mudder.  When  Nils  ban 
so  high,  I  yump  him  by  mine  knee.'*  So  it  was  that 
rage  over  the  pitiful  fate  of  their  dear  friend  fanned 
into  flame  a  spark  of  rebellion  in  the  squarehead's 
disciplined  souls,  and  caused  then),  eventually,  to 
leap  the  barriers  of  race  and  caste  prejudice  and 
make  common  cause  with  the  stiffs. 

Now,  I  do  not  wish  to  idealize  those  stiffs.  No 
use  saying  they  were  honest  workingmen  kidnaped 
to  sea.  They  were  not.  They  were  just  what  the 
mates  called  them — dogs,  scum,  vile  sweeps  of  jail 
and  boozing-ken.  With  the  single  exception  of  the 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  131 

shanghaied  parson,  there  was  not  a  decent  man  in 
the  lot.  Bums  and  crooks,  all. 

These  men  had  lived  violent,  lawless  lives  ashore. 
Here,  at  sea,  the  mates  hammered  the  fear  of  the 
Lord  and  the  Law  into  them.  This  was  well  and 
good.  But  the  mates  hammered  too  hard.  They 
aimed  to  cow  the  stiffs,  and  cow  them  they  did.  But 
the  stiffs'  fear  of  the  afterguard  became  so  great 
they  were  like  cornered  rats.  They  came  below  after 
a  watch  on  deck  with  fresh  marks  upon  their  faces 
and  bodies,  and  heard  little  Nils  moaning  in  his  pain. 
And  each  man  said  to  himself,  "I  may  be  the  next  to 
get  what  the  little  squarehead  got." 

Misery  loves  company,  so  these  stiffs  naturally 
drew  close  together.  Their  common  hatred  and  fear 
of  the  afterguard  fused  them  into  a  unit.  By  the 
time  we  were  a  month  at  sea,  the  stiffs,  like  the 
squareheads,  were  in  a  most  dangerous  temper,  and 
ripe  for  any  deviltry. 

This  common  state  of  mind  grew  beneath  my  eyes, 
but  at  first  I  did  not  see  significance  in  it.  A  mutinous 
state  of  mind  is  a  normal  state  of  mind  in  a  hell- 
ship's  foc'sle. 

But  a  mutiny  was  incubating  in  that  ship.  There 
were  men  forward  who  were  vitally  interested  in 
bringing  trouble  to  a  head,  in  causing  an  outbreak 
of  violence,  in  fomenting  an  uprising  of  the  slaves. 
One  day,  my  eyes  were  opened  to  their  game. 

For  weeks  I  noticed  Blackie  and  Boston  circulat 
ing  among  the  men  during  the  dog-watches.  They 


132  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

were  great  whisperers,  a  secretive  pair,  and  they 
never  spoke  their  minds  outright  before  the  crowd. 
I  paid  them  little  attention,  for  I  did  not  like  them, 
and  felt  no  interest  in  what  I  thought  was  their 
gossip.  It  never  occurred  to  me  they  were  industri 
ously  fanning  the  spark  of  revolt,  suggesting  re 
venge  to  the  squareheads,  and  tickling  the  ras 
cally  imagination  of  the  stiffs  with  hints  of  golden 
loot 

So  far  my  rule  as  cock  of  the  foc'sle  had  been 
unchallenged.  All  hands  had  accepted  my  will  in 
foc'sle  matters  willingly  enough,  and  I  had  been  care 
ful  not  to  hector.  As  number  one  man,  it  was  my 
place  to  see  that  the  men  stood  their  "peggy" — 
that  is,  they  took  their  regular  turn  about  at  getting 
the  food  at  meal  time,  and  cleaning  up  the  foc'sle. 

It  came  Boston's  peggy  day.  He  didn't  like  it  a 
bit.  He  thought  himself  too  good  for  such  menial 
tasks,  and  suggested  that  Shorty,  the  smallest  and 
weakest  of  the  stiffs,  be  made  permanent  peggy.  I 
vetoed  this  as  unfair,  and  Boston  went  about  the 
work,  but  sullenly. 

Next  day  was  Blackie's  peggy,  as  he  well  knew. 
When  we  came  below  at  noon,  he  made  no  move  to 
fetch  the  grub  from  the  galley. 

"How  about  dinner,  Blackie?"  I  demanded. 

"Well — how  about  it?"  he  replied.  "I'm  no  serv 
ant  girl!  Get  your  own  grub!" 

All  hands  looked  at  me,  expectantly.  This  was 
open  defiance,  and  they  wanted  to  see  what  the  cock 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  133 

would  do  about  it.     There  was  only  one  thing  I 
could  do,  and  I  did  it  gladly. 

I  took  that  chesty  stiff  by  the  throat,  and  squeezed 
until  his  eyes  popped.  Then  I  carried  him  out  on 
deck  and  stuck  his  head  in  the  wash-deck  tub,  to  cool 
his  ardor ;  the  whole  watch  following  us  as  interested 
spectators. 

"Well,  Blackie,  how  about  dinner?"  I  asked,  when 
I  released  my  grip. 

In  answer,  he  backed  quickly  away  from  me, 
spluttering  oaths  and  salt  water.  I  watched  him 
warily,  for  his  affair  with  the  second  mate  had  shown 
him  to  be  a  knife  wielder,  and  I  had  no  wish  to  be 
stabbed.  True  enough,  he  jerked  out  his  sheath 
knife. 

"Stof  that,  you  fool!"  came  Boston's  voice,  from 
behind  me.  "Do  you  want  to  crab  the  whole  game?" 
Those  words  had  an  astonishing  effect  upon 
Blackie.  His  bellicose  attitude  vanished  abruptly, 
he  stopped  cursing,  and  his  knife  went  back  into  its 
sheath. 

"That  dinner,  Blackie,"  I  insisted. 
"Sure — I'll  get  it,"  he  answered  submissively. 
But  I  wasn't  satisfied  with  my  victory.    Of  course, 
I  was  confident  I  could  have  knocked  him  out  as 
handily  as  Bucko  Lynch,  himself,  but  I  knew  it  was 
not  fear  of  me,  but  obedience  to  Boston's  words  that 
caused  Blackie  to  give  in  so  readily. 

Those  words  bothered  me.     "Do  you  want  to 
crab  the  whole  game?"     Now  what  the  deuce  did 


134  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Boston  mean?  What  game  were  these  two  worthies 
up  to?  Undoubtedly,  it  was  that  "rich  lay"  they 
had  spoken  to  Newman  about.  But  what  had  I  to 
do  with  it?  How  could  I  crab  their  game?  I  began 
to  think  there  was  something  besides  loose  talk  in 
these  hints  of  revenge  and  loot  the  pair  were  drop 
ping  in  the  foc'sle. 

I  guess  Boston  knew  my  suspicions  must  be 
aroused,  and  thought  it  time  to  sound  my  sentiments. 
Also,  as  it  turned  out,  he  wanted  to  pump  me  re 
garding  Newman.  I  was  Newman's  one  close 
friend,  and  Boston  must  have  thought  I  knew  some 
thing  of  the  big  man's  intentions. 

Anyway,  afttr  supper  that  evening,  as  I  was  sit 
ting  on  the  forehatch,  whittling  away  at  a  model  of 
the  Golden  Bough  I  was  making,  Boston  came  and 
sat  down  beside  me. 

"Should  think  you'd  be  so  fed  up  with  this  hooker, 
you  wouldn't  want  any  model  of  her,"  he  remarked, 
by  way  of  opening  a  conversation. 

"She's  a  bonny  ship,"  I  told  him.  "It  is  not  the 
ship,  it  is  the  men  in  her.  You'll  never  see  a  better 
craft  than  the  Golden  Bough,  Boston." 

"Faugh!"  he  snorted,  and  followed  with  a  blister 
ing  curse.  "Blast  your  pretty  ships !  I'd  like  to  see 
this  old  hooker  go  on  the  rocks,  by  God  I  would! 
Well — maybe  I  will  see  her  finish,  eh?" 

I  glanced  at  him  sidewise,  and  discovered  he  was 
likewise  regarding  me,  with  the  lids  drawn  over  his 
pale  eyes  till  they  were  mere  slits.  I  didn't  like 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  135 

Boston's  eyes.  For  that  matter,  I  didn't  like  any 
thing  about  Boston.  But  I  was  interested;  I  sensed 
this  was  no  idle  talk.  There  was  something  behind 
the  words. 

"Small  chance  of  your  seeing  her  finish,"  I  said. 
"As  well  found  a  ship  as  there  is  afloat — and  you 
may  call  the  Old  Man  and  his  buckos  what  you  will, 
but  they  are  sailormen." 

"I've  heard  of  ships  sinking  in  storms,"  says  he. 

"You  talk  like  the  stiff  you  are,"  I  scoffed.  "Show 
me  the  weather  that  will  drown  the  Golden  Bough, 
with  good  sailors  aft!  Besides,  Boston,  we're  not 
likely  to  have  any  bad  weather,  for  which  you  can 
say  a  prayer  of  thanks,  for  you  stiffs  would  catch  it 
if  we  did  pick  up  a  decent  blow." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"It's  a  fair  weather  passage,"  I  explained.  "These 
trades  will  blow  us  clean  across  one  hundred  and 
eighty,  into  the  sou'west  monsoon,  and  with  luck 
that'll  carry  us  into  the  China  Sea.  Of  course,  there 
is  always  the  chance  of  meeting  a  hurricane  this  side, 
or  a  typhoon  on  the  other  side.  You'll  squeal  if  we 
do,  I  bet!" 

Says  he,  "Well,  now  how  about  running  on  a 
rock?  We'll  be  going  among  islands,  hey?  These 
South  Sea  Islands?" 

"Forget  it,"  I  replied.  "We'll  not  sight  the 
beach  this  side  of  the  Orient,  unless  the  Old  Man 
makes  a  landfall  of  Guam.  We  are  running  along 
sixteen  north,  and  that  takes  us  south  of  the  Sand- 


136  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

wich  group,  and  north  of  the  Marshalls  and  Caro 
lines." 

"Well,  now,  I  guess  the  Big  'Un  bas  been  show 
ing  you  his  map,  hey?" 

"What's  that  to  you?"  I  said,  shortly. 

"Nothing.  Nothing  at  all,"  he  answered,  hurri 
edly. 

In  truth,  I  was  surprised  and  nettled.  I 
hadn't  got  the  point  of  Boston's  questions,  and  I 
hadn't  supposed  he  was  watching  Newman  and  me 
so  sharply. 

For  Boston  had  it  right,  I  had  been  looking  at  the 
Big  'Un's  "map."  Newman  had  a  fine,  large  scale 
chart  of  the  Pacific  in  his  bag,  and  this  he  brought 
out  every  day,  and  traced  upon  it  the  progress  of  the 
voyage.  He  got  the  ship's  position  either  from  the 
steward,  or  from  the  lady,  I  did  not  know  which. 

I  had  been  privileged  to  see  the  chart,  but  I  knew 
that  none  other  had  ventured  to  approach  when  it 
was  spread  out  on  Newman's  bunk.  Newman  had 
traced  the  ship's  probable  course  clear  to  Hong 
Kong,  for  my  benefit,  and  explained  to  me  the  prob 
lems  of  the  passage.  He  did  not  speak  like  a  man 
merely  guessing,  but  with  authority,  like  a  man  who 
had  sailed  his  own  ship  over  this  course.  I  absorbed 
the  information  greedily,  but  did  not  venture  to 
inquire  how  he  was  so  positive  about  Yankee 
Swope's  sailing  plans.  Somehow,  I  knew  he  was 
correct. 

It  pricked  my  conceit  to  discover  that  Boston  was 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  137 

aware  Newman  had  fathered  the  information  that 
was  falling  from  my  lips. 

"Say,  how  long  before  we  reach  Hong  Kong?" 
went  on  Boston. 

"You  had  better  ask  Newman,  himself,"  I  re 
torted. 

"Now  don't  get  mad,  Jack,"  he  said  humbly. 
"You  know  I  didn't  mean  nothing.  Guess  you  sabe 
as  much  about  sailing  as  the  Big  'Un,  anyway." 

"Well,  this  is  a  fast  ship?-— none  faster,"  I  told 
him,  mollified  by  his  flattery.  "Say  seventy  days,  at 
the  outside,  from  'Frisco  to  Hong  Kong.  Probably 
sixty  days  would  be  nearer  to  it." 

At  that  he  burst  out  cursing,  and  consigned  the 
ship  and  all  her  afterguard  to  the  Evil  One.  "My 
God,  another  month  of  this  hell!"  he  cried.  "Will 
you  stand  it,  Shreve?" 

"Sure.  We'll  all  stand  it.  What  else  to  do?"  I 
replied. 

"What  else!"  said  he.  His  voice  was  suddenly 
crafty.  "Well,  now,  Shreve,  didn't  it  ever  strike  you 
as  how  we're  blasted  fools  to  let  those  fellows  aft 
knock  us  about?  There  are  thirty  of  us,  and  two 
of  them!" 

"More  than  that,"  I  warned  him.  "You  forget 
Captain  Swope,  and  the  tradesmen.  There  are  seven 
of  them,  aft,  all  armed,  and  of  a  fighting  breed.  You 
are  hinting  at  a  silly  business,  Boston." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  persisted.  "Thirty  to 
seven  ain't  so  bad.  And  they  haven't  all  the  arms — 


138  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

we  got  our  knives,  ain't  we?  And  maybe  other 
things,  too." 

"Forget  it,"  said  I.  "Don't  imagine  for  a  minute 
these  stiffs  will  face  guns.  You  and  your  mate 
might,  but  as  for  the  rest  of  the  gang — why,  Lynch 
could  clean  them  up  single-handed.  Better  stow 
that  kind  of  talk.  It's  dangerous.  You  have  the 
law  against  you,  and  it's  a  neck-stretching  affair." 

"The  law?"  he  echoed.  "What  do  you  think  that 
gang  cares  for  the  law?  Mighty  few  laws  they  ain't 
broke  in  their  time !  And  they  may  be  stiffs,  right 
enough,  but  they'll  fight — for  money!" 

"Dare  say,"  I  remarked,  sarcastically.  "And  I 
suppose  you'll  hire  them  with  your  bags  of  gold, 
which  you  probably  have  stowed  under  your  bunk?" 

"Well,  now,  maybe  I'd  just  have  to  promise  them 
something,"  he  said.  He  glanced  around,  then 
leaned  towards  me  and  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whis 
per.  "Shreve,  there  are  a  hundred  thousand  dollars 
in  hard  cash  aft  there  in  the  cabin!" 

"What's  that?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  know.  You  bet  I  know. 
Blackie  and  me  knew  before  ever  we  come  on  board 
this  cursed  hooker.  The  Swede  didn't  shanghai  us, 
you  bet  I" 

"Oh,  stow  that  sort  of  guff,  Boston,"  I  told  him. 
"Maybe  the  Swede  didn't  shanghai  you;  but  if  he 
didn't,  it  was  because  you  and  your  mate  were  will 
ing  to  ship  with  the  devil  himself  in  order  to  get 
out  of  the  country." 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  139 

My  words  touched  his  temper,  as  I  thought  they 
would.  "You  seem  to  know  a  lot  more  than  I  know 
myself,"  he  sneered.  Before  I  could  answer,  he  re 
gained  control  of  his  tongue,  and  continued  with  oily 
suavity.  "I  guess  the  Big  'Un  has  been  talking  to 
you?  Hasn't  he?  I  guess  maybe  he's  told  you  that 
Blackie  and  me  are  two  men  who  can  take  a  chance 
without  weakening?  Say,  Jack,  what  has  the  Big 
'Un  been  saying  to  you  about  us?  I  want  particular 
to  know." 

"He  hasn't  said  a  blessed  word  about  you,"  I 
answered,  truthfully. 

Boston  cursed,  and  favored  me  with  an  evil 
squint;  then  he  hid  the  look  behind  a  forced  laugh. 
"Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  tell  me,  I  guess  you 
don't  have  to,"  he  remarked.  "It  don't  hurt  me  and 
Blackie  none,  whatever  the  Big  'Un  says.  And  say, 
Jack,  you  and  us  ought  to  be  good  friends.  Blackie 
and  me  know  that  you're  a  good  man,  the  kind 
that'll  take  a  chance,  and  keep  his  word.  Well, 
we're  the  same.  There  are  only  a  few  of  us  in 
this  end  of  the  ship  that  have  any  backbone  to  speak 
of,  and  we  ought  to  stick  together.  There's  pay- 
dirt  in  this  ship  if  we  only  play  the  game 
right." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  wanted  to  know. 

But  Boston  concluded  he  had  said  almost  enough 
for  once.  He  rapped  his  pipe  against  the  hatch- 
combing  to  dislodge  the  dottle,  and  got  to  his  feet. 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  leave  me  without  replying 


140  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

to  my  query,  but  after  he  had  taken  a  step  or  two 
he  spoke  over  his  shoulder,  softly. 

"That's  true  what  I  said  about  the  money,  Jack. 
It's  there,  just  waiting  for  a  few  lads  of  nerve  to 
come  and  take  it." 

"If  that  talk  gets  aft,  the  Old  Man  will  have  you 
thumped  into  a  jelly,  just  as  an  example  to  the  other 
stiffs,"  I  warned  him. 

He  gave  the  devil's  cackle  that  passed  with  him 
for  a  laugh,  and  stepping  close  to  my  side,  spoke  di 
rectly  into  my  ear. 

uWho  is  going  to  take  the  talk  aft?  Not  you. 
Blackie  and  me  know  that  Jack  Shreve  ain't  a  snitch. 
Not  the  Big  'Un.  You  can  tell  him  what  I  said  if 
you  like.  You  can  tell  him  something  more.  Blackie 
and  me  think  there  is  a  snitch  in  this  gang,  and  the 
Big  'Un  had  better  keep  his  eyes  peeled  for  a  double- 
cross.  You  tell  him  that.  You  tell  him  to  ask 
Nigger  about  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried. 

His  answer  was  a  mysterious  shake  of  the  head, 
and  he  disappeared  into  the  foc'sle. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IF  Boston  meant  to  give  me  something  to  think 
about,  he  succeeded.   He  left  me  worried.   Not 
about  the  treasure  or  mutiny  at  which  he  hinted; 
for  the  time  being  I  put  this  subject  out  of  my  mind. 
I    was    concerned    over    his    unexplained    warning. 
What  did  it  mean?    Did  some  new  danger  threaten 
my  friend? 

I  went  in  search  of  Newman,  to  give  him  the 
warning.  He  was  not  in  his  bunk,  so  I  stepped  into 
the  port  foc'sle,  expecting  to  find  him  by  Nils'  side. 
Nils  was  dying — we  had  been  expecting  him  to  go 
at  almost  any  hour  for  a  week  past — and  Newman 
had  been  spending  a  goodly  share  of  his  watches 
below  by  the  lad's  side. 

But  he  was  not  there  now.  The  parson,  and  some 
of  the  squareheads  of  the  port  watch,  were  keeping 
sick  vigil.  Nils  was  very  near  the  time  when  he 
must  slip  his  cable;  he  lay  quiet,  eyes  closed,  hardly 
breathing,  and  his  thin,  white  face  seemed  already 
composed  into  its  death  mold.  Holy  Joe  sat  hold 
ing  the  boy's  hand;  his  head  was  bowed,  and  I 
judged  he  was  praying.  The  others  stared  miserably 
at  the  floor,  or  ceiling,  or  at  each  other.  Aye,  the 
taste  of  bitter  sorrow  was  in  the  air  of  the  port 
foc'sle.  I  left  without  disturbing  the  silent  watch- 
Hi 


142  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

ers,  but  I  wondered  at  their  boldness.  They  should 
have  been  on  deck.  Mister  Fitzgibbon  did  not  give 
his  men  respite,  even  during  the  dog-watches. 

I  went  poking  about  the  odd  corners  of  the  fore 
deck,  expecting  to  find  my  man  tucked  away  some 
where  smoking  and  meditating,  for  Newman  was  a 
solitary  fellow,  very  fond  of  his  own  company  in  his 
free  time.  I  laid  the  ill-success  of  my  search  to  the 
dusk;  it  was  past  seven  bells,  and  although  there 
was  still  a  glow  in  the  western  sky,  on  board  ship 
it  was  quite  dark  and  the  sidelights  had  been  out  a 
half  hour.  Finally,  I  decided  to  lay  off,  waylay  the 
Nigger  when  he  came  forward  from  his  trick  at  the 
wheel,  and  ask  him  myself  what  was  the  meaning  of 
Boston's  talk  of  "snitch." 

Now  it  was  no  light  undertaking  for  a  foremast 
hand  to  trespass  abaft  the  main  mast  in  the  Golden 
Bough.  There  was  risk  in  it,  risk  of  a  beating,  or 
worse.  A  man  might  lay  aft  in  that  ship  to  work, 
or  in  obedience  to  orders,  but  for  no  other  reason. 
Hell-ship  discipline. 

So  I  slipped  aft  without  making  a  noise,  and 
avoided  attracting  to  myself  unwelcome  attention 
from  the  poop.  I  was  barefoot,  and  I  crept  along 
the  rail,  keeping  within  the  shadows  on  the  lee  deck. 
When  I  came  abreast  the  roundhouse,  I  darted  into 
the  black  shadow  it  threw  upon  the  lee  deck,  and 
crouched  there,  composed  to  wait.  My  eyes  were 
aft,  upon  the  break  of  the  poop,  and  I  was  ready  to 
take  instant  flight  forward,  did  discovery  threaten  me. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  143 

After  I  had  lain  there  a  moment,  I  noticed  the 
figure  of  a  man  standing  motionless,  flattened  against 
the  cabin  wall,  on  my  side  of  the  deck.  He  was  so 
still  he  appeared  to  be  lifeless,  a  part  of  the  ship;  I 
looked  hard  before  I  decided  it  was  a  man.  It  was 
too  dark  to  make  out  his  features,  almost  too  dark 
to  discern  outline,  but  by  the  bigness  of  the  blot 
he  made  against  his  background  I  was  sure  the  man 
was  Newman.  What  he  was  doing  in  such  a  posi 
tion  I  could  not  guess,  but  I  was  so  sure  of  my  man 
I  did  not  hesitate  to  move  towards  him.  I  even 
spoke  his  name,  in  an  urgent  whisper. 

My  hiss  brought  a  prompt  response,  but  not  the 
one  for  which  I  was  looking.  To  my  surprise  the 
fellow  ran  away  from  me;  he  slipped  across  the 
deck  (padding  noiselessly,  for  he  was  barefoot,  like 
myself)  and,  bending  nearly  double,  scurried  for'ard 
beside  the  weather  rail. 

I  stared  after  him,  undecided  what  to  do.  The 
man  looked  like  Newman,  but  he  did  not  act  like 
him.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  pursue  his  flitting  figure. 

Then  all  at  once  I  discovered  I  must  take  cover 
myself.  I  heard  the  mate's  voice,  up  on  the  poop; 
he  was  hailing  his  tradesmen. 

"We'll  take  a  whirl  for'ard,"  says  he.  "I'll  give 
the  bums  a  sweat  at  the  braces  so  they  won't  think 
I'm  asleep." 

I  had  moved  away  from  the  shadow  of  the  round 
house,  and  was  revealed,  as  I  stood,  to  any  eye  look 
ing  over  the  poop  rail.  I  was  in  a  ticklish  position 


144  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

altogether.  If  braces  were  to  be  tightened,  the  lee 
of  the  roundhouse  would  be  a  poor  hiding-place  for 
me.  In  fact  it  would  be  no  hiding-place  at  all.  But 
get  out  of  sight  I  must,  and  quickly,  or  suffer  the  un 
pleasant  consequences  of  discovery. 

I  heard  boots  clumping  on  the  poop  deck.  There 
wasn't  time  for  me  to  escape  forward.  So  I  darted 
aft  and  flattened  myself  against  the  cabin  wall,  in 
exactly  the  same  position,  and  in  very  nearly  the 
same  spot,  as  that  occupied  by  the  fellow  I  had 
scared  away.  I  was  not  a  second  too  soon.  Sails 
and  Chips  came  down  the  port  ladder,  and  paused 
on  the  main  deck,  almost  within  arm's  reach  of  me, 
waiting  for  the  mate  to  join  them. 

If  they  had  glanced  in  my  direction  they  must  have 
seen  me.  But  they  were  looking  forward,  and  were 
also  occupied  with  talk. 

Said  Chips,  "But  what's  the  game?  He's  work 
ing  up  trouble,  that's  plain.  But  what's  he  after  this 
time?" 

Said  Sails,  "He's  after  that  fellow  in  the  Greaser's 
watch,  or  I'm  a  damn  bad  guesser.  But,  his  game — 
well,  ask  me  something  easy.  Did  you  ever  know 
anybody  to  fathom  his  game?" 

This  I  heard  with  one  ear.  At  the  same  time  my 
other  ear  was  getting  filled  with  different  kind  of 
talk.  Aye,  my  post  was  between  two  conversations, 
and  I  found  myself  eavesdropping  in  two  directions. 

This  wall  I  hugged  was  the  forward  wall  of  the 
sail-locker,  which,  in  the  Golden  Bough,  was  a  large 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  145 

room  in  the  cabin  space,  and  as  I  stood,  my  star 
board  ear  was  but  a  few  inches  distant  from  the  sail- 
locker  door.  This  door  was  in  two  parts,  and  the 
upper  half  was  barely  ajar.  Through  this  narrow 
slit  I  heard — I  couldn't  help  hearing — the  murmur 
of  low-voiced  talk.  Two  people  were  in  the  sail- 
locker,  talking.  Oh,  aye,  I  had  discovered  Newman. 
I  recognized  his  voice.  I  recognized  the  other  voice 
— the  lady's  voice. 

"Oh,  Mary — little  love — it  doesn't  seem  to  mat 
ter  any  more.  When  I  am  with  you,  it  is  just  a 
hideous  dream  from  which  I  have  awakened."  It 
was  Newman  speaking,  and  in  a  voice  so  tender,  so 
vibrant  with  feeling,  it  was  hard  to  believe  the  words 
came  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  foc'sle's  iron  man. 
"But  now  I  wish  to  live  again.  Ah,  little  love,  I 
have  been  dead  too  long,  dead  to  everything  except 
pain  and  hate.  But  now  that  I  know,  now  that  we 
both  know — oh,  Mary,  surely  we  have  earned  the 
right  to  live  and  love.  God  will  not  hold  it  against 
us,  if  I  take  you  from  that  mad  beast.  God — I  am 
beginning  to  believe  in  God  again,  Mary,  when  I 
am  with  you." 

"I,  too,  wish  to  live — and  in  clean  air,"  came  in 
the  lady's  voice.  "Oh,  Roy — five  years — and  the 
piling  up  of  horrors — oh,  I  could  not  have  stood  it 
very  much  longer,  Roy.  But  now — we  can  forget." 

"That  lad  for'ard  is  all  ready  to  slip  his  cable," 
came  from  the  other  direction,  from  Chips.  "The 
steward  says  he's  all  set  to  go." 


146  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"He's  been  all  set  for  a  fortnight,"  was  the  other 
man's  comment,  "but  he  hangs  on.  Takes  a  lot  to 
kill  a  squarehead.  Most  likely  he'll  be  hanging  on 
when  we  make  port." 

"Not  if  I  know  Fitz  and — him,"  said  Chips. 
"You  don't  think  they'd  leave  evidence  of  that 
sort  for  a  port  doctor  to  squint  at.  Remember 
that  Portagee,  last  voyage,  and  how  he  fin 
ished?" 

"Aye,  it  was  hard  on  the  lady,  that  job  was.  But 
he — he's  a  devil,  sure.  No  use  standing  out  against 
him." 

"Five  years !  My  God,  how  have  you  been  able 
to  stand  it,  Mary?"  said  Newman.  "Five  years — 
and  most  of  them  spent  at  sea  in  this  blood  ship !" 

"It  has  been  my  penance,  Roy.  It  has  seemed  to 
me  that  in  sailing  with  him,  in  lessening  even  a  little 
bit  the  misery  he  causes  those  poor  men,  I  have  been 
atoning,  in  a  little  measure,  for  my  lack  of  faith  in 
you.  Oh,  it  was  my  fault  in  the  beginning,  dearest. 
If  only  I  had  had  faith  in  the  beginning,  if  only  I 
had  trusted  my  heart  instead  of  my  eyes  and  ears. 
I  might  have  known  that  time  that  Beulah  was 
lying." 

"Hush.  How  could  you  know?  It  was  my  stub 
born,  stupid  pride.  If  I  had  not  rushed  away  and 
left  the  field  to  him.  And  I  never  knew,  or  even 
guessed,  until  Beasley  told  me." 

"If  I  was  that  big  fellow,  I'd  just  hop  over  the 
side  and  have  it  over  with,"  came  from  Sails.  "If 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  147 

the  Old  Man  is  after  him,  he's  bound  to  get  him, 
and  making  a  quick  finish  himself  would  save  a  lot 
o'  bother  all  around." 

"What's  it  about,  anyway?"  says  Chips. 

"How  do  I  know?"  answered  Sails.  "I  don't  go 
poking  my  nose  into  Yankee  Swope's  business,  you 
can  bet  your  bottom  dollar  I  don't.  I  take  my  or 
ders,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  Same  as  you.  Same  as 
the  others.  There's  Fitz  up  there  now,  chinning 
with  him,  and  I  bet  Fitz  don't  know  much  more  of 
his  game  than  you  and  me.  He  takes  his  orders 
just  like  we  do." 

"That's  right.  We  ain't  hired  to  think.  Not  in 
this  ship,"  agreed  Chips. 

"Do  you  think,  Roy,  that  Beulah — that  she 
jumped — herself?"  The  lady's  voice  was  trembling. 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  I  think  maybe  she  did.  But 
Beasley  thought — oh,  well,  what  does  it  matter 
now?" 

"Beasley  thought  he  did  it.  I  knew — I  felt  it  was 
him,  oh,  long,  long  ago.  It  would  be  like  him,  Roy. 
He  has  never  dropped  a  hint  that  would  incriminate 
himself,  but  I  have  known  his  guilt  of  the  other 
thing — for  which  you  suffered — ever  since  our  mar 
riage.  When  he  dropped  the  mask,  revealed  him 
self  in  his  true  character — oh,  I  knew  he  must  be 
guilty.  And  I  was  helpless." 

"My  God,  five  years  1"  muttered  Newman.  "How 
could  you  stand  it?" 

"It  was  not  so  hard,  except  at  first,"  said  the  lady. 


148  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Too  much  horror  numbs,  you  know.  And  one 
thing  made  it  endurable — he  has  spared  me  the  in 
timacy  of  marriage.  It  is  true,  dearest;  I  am  as 
much  a  maid  as  I  was  five  years  ago.  He  is  that 
kind  of  a  man,  Roy.  It  is  not  women  he  lusts  for, 
it  is — oh,  it  is  blood.  There  is  something  horrible 
in  his  mind,  a  diseased  spot,  an  unnatural  quirk,  that 
drives  him  to  abominable  cruelties.  It  is  some  tiger 
ish  instinct  he  possesses;  it  makes  him  kill  and  de 
stroy,  it  makes  him  inflict  pain.  Oh,  Roy,  it  is  his 
pleasure — to  inflict  pain." 

"Lynch  doesn't  like  it,"  said  Sails,  in  reply  to 
some  question  I  had  missed  hearing. 

"Little  good  not  liking  it  will  do  him,"  was  Chips' 
opinion.  "He'll  do  what  the  Old  Man  wants  him 
to  do,  just  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"Has  he  ever  used  you — as  victim?"  said  New 
man,  a  new,  hard  note  in  his  voice. 

"No,  no,  not  in  that  way,"  answered  the  lady. 
"It  is  to  the  crew  he  does  that.  He  has  never  hurt 
me  physically." 

"But  mentally,  eh?"  remarked  Newman.  "He 
enjoys  refinements  of  cruelty,  also?  Mental  torture, 
when  he  finds  a  mind  intelligent  enough  to  appre 
ciate  subtleties?  That  is  it?" 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  said  the  lady.  "It  was  horrible 
at  first.  But  afterwards,  when  I  had  found  my 
work,  I  did  not  mind  him  very  much.  He  let  me  go 
on  playing  doctor  to  the  crew  because  he  thought 
it  hurt  me  to  see  and  handle  those  poor  creatures. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  149 

Oh,  it  did  hurt !  But  the  work,  the  being  useful — it 
has  saved  me,  Roy,  it  has  kept  me  sane." 

"He's  a  good  man,  none  better,"  said  Chips,  still 
talking  about  Lynch,  "but  he's  too  soft  for  a  bucko's 
job  in  this  wagon." 

"Five  years;  good  God!  The  prison  was  heaven 
compared  to  what  you  have  lived  through.  Oh,  my 
poor  darling!  And  he — the  vile  brute " 

"No,  no,  not  that  attitude!  You  have  prom 
ised — "  exclaimed  the  lady. 

"He's  not  soft,"  Sails  disputed  with  Chips.  "He's 
as  hard  as  they're  made.  But  he's  a  square-shooter, 
Lynch  is,  and  the  rest  o'  us  ain't.  That  makes  the 
difference.  Now  we  got  good  reasons  to  do  any 
thing  the  skipper  says,  we  being  what  we  are,  and 
him  being  what  he  is,  and  we  knowing  he  can  turn 
us  up,  and  will,  if  we  don't  suit.  But  Jim  Lynch — 
not  Swope,  or  any  other  man,  has  a  hold  on  him." 

"No  man,  maybe,"  says  Chips.  "But  in  the  other 
quarter,  now.  If  Lynch  ain't  soft  there,  I'm  a  sol 
dier." 

"Who  ain't  a  bit  soft  in  that  quarter?"  Sails  de 
manded.  "I'm  mighty  sorry  for  her,  same  as  you 
are,  same  as  everyone  is,  save  Fitz.  If  it  wasn't  that 
Swope  has  me  body  and  soul,  I'd  side  with  Lynch, 
b'Gawd,  in  anything  he  wanted  to  start." 

"Shut  up !"  exclaimed  Chips.  "That's  damn  fool 
talk  to  come  out  o'  your  mouth." 

"Oh,  you  have  softened  me,  Mary,  you  have  un 
manned  me!"  I  heard  Newman  say.  "I  came  to 


150  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

this  ship  to  kill,  and  now — there  is  little  bitterness 
left  in  my  heart.  I  am  only  eager  now  to  be  gone 
with  you  beyond  his  reach." 

"I  am  glad,  more  glad  than  I  can  tell,"  the 
lady  told  him.  "His  lies  have  ruined  your  life,  and 
mine,  but  I  do  not  want  you  to  stain  your  hands  with 
his  blood.  Oh,  there  has  been  so  much  bloodshed! 
You  must  not;  you  have  promised!" 

"Yes,  and  I  will  keep  my  promise,"  said  Newman. 
"But  you  have  promised,  too,  and  you  know  how  I 
qualified  my  promise.  We  cannot  take  too  many 
chances  with  him,  and  you  know  that  he  has  no 
scruples  about  shedding  blood.  He  knows,  he  must 
know,  that  I  do  not  intend  to  leave  you  in  his  hands; 
he  must  realize,  also,  that  now  he  is  not  safe  so  long 
as  either  of  us  is  alive  and  at  large.  Why,  dear, 
you  know  the  trap  he  is  preparing!" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  was  the  response.  "But  my 
prayer  is  that  we  may  get  away  before  he  is  ready." 

"It  is  my  prayer,  too,"  said  Newman.  "I  gladly 
give  up  my  revenge  for  your  sake,  little  love.  But 
I  intend  to  protect  you,  and  myself — that,  too,  is 
my  promise." 

"Here  comes  Fitz  now,"  said  Sails. 

It  was  touch-and-go  with  discovery  a  second  time 
as  Mister  Fitzgibbon  stamped  down  the  ladder.  But 
he  was  already  bawling  for  the  watch,  and  had  his 
eyes  fixed  straight  ahead;  and  immediately  he  went 
forward  with  the  tradesmen  at  his  heels. 

I   waited  until  the  mate's  bellow  sounded  well 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  151 

forward,  and  I  was  sure  my  retreat  would  be  un 
observed.  Then  I  placed  my  lips  to  the  opening 
in  the  sail-locker  door  and  called  softly,  ''New 
man!  Come  out  of  that  at  once;  you  are  spied 
upon!" 

I  heard  the  lady  gasp,  and  knew  my  message  was 
received  and  understood.  I  waited  for  no  other  re 
sponse.  I  scuttled  away  from  that  perilous  spot 
as  fast  as  caution  permitted  my  legs  to  travel.  Jack 
Shreve  was  no  Newman;  I  had  not  his  cool  nerve 
when  it  came  to  flouting  hell-ship  rules.  In  truth, 
I  was  in  a  blue  funk  all  the  time  I  was  aft,  for  fear 
I  would  be  discovered.  And  there  was  another  rea 
son  for  my  haste  in  getting  forward.  There  was  a 
sudden  uproar  in  front  of  the  foc'sle  that  bade  fair 
to  carry  through  the  ship. 

There  was  trouble  in  the  air;  I  could  sniff  it  as  I 
ran.  Although  time  enough  had  elapsed  since  the 
mate  sang  out  his  order  to  man  the  braces,  the  watch 
was  not  yet  at  the  rail;  and  this  was  a  strange  thing 
in  a  ship  where  men  literally  flew  about  their  work. 
The  trouble  was  in  the  port  foc'sle;  I  could  see  the 
crowd  bunched  on  the  deck  before  the  door,  and 
Mister  Fitzgibbon's  voice  had  risen  to  a  shrill,  ob 
scene  scream  as  he  poured  blistering  curses  upon 
some  luckless  head. 

I  dodged  across  the  deck  and  around  the  star 
board  side  of  the  deck  house,  and  thus  came  upon 
the  scene  in  a  casual  manner,  as  though  I  had  just 
stepped  out  of  my  own  foc'sle  to  see  what  was 


152  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

wrong.  I  mingled  with  my  watch  mates,  who  had 
turned  out  to  a  man  to  watch  the  row. 

Over  on  the  port  side  of  the  deck  a  royal  shindy 
seemed  to  be  preparing.  Aye,  the  mate  had  at  last 
struck  fire  from  his  squareheads  I  They  were  on  the 
verge  of  open  rebellion.  The  stiffs  of  the  port 
watch  had  fallen  to  one  side,  and  stood  quaking  and 
irresolute,  but  the  squareheads,  all  of  them,  were 
bunched  squarely  between  the  mate  and  the  foc'sle 
door,  and  to  the  mate's  stream  of  curses  they  inter 
posed  a  wall  of  their  own  oaths.  Mister  Fitzgibbon 
had  his  right  hand  in  his  coat  pocket,  and  all  hands 
knew  that  hand  was  closed  about  the  butt  of  a  re 
volver;  moreover,  the  tradesmen  stood  on  either  side 
of  him,  prepared  to  back  him  up  in  whatever  course 
he  chose  to  take.  They  were  good  men,  those  trades 
men,  fighting  men,  and  skilled  in  just  such  battles  as 
this  promised  to  be.  The  port  watch  Sails,  who 
stood  nearest  to  me,  was  armed  with  a  heavy  sheet 
pin,  and  he  stood  with  his  face  half  turned  towards 
the  starboard  side.  Aye,  they  were  canny  fighters — 
if  it  came  to  blows  they  would  not  be  taken  in  the 
flank  by  surprise. 

Mister  Fitzgibbon  was  swearing  over  the  heads 
of  the  squareheads.  He  threw  his  words  into  foc'sle. 
He  was  calling  upon  Holy  Joe,  the  parson,  to  come 
out  of  it  blasted  quick  and  be  skinned  alive,  b'Gawd ! 
Broken  bones  were  being  promised  to  poor  Holy 
Joe.  That  was  why  the  squareheads  were  showing 
fight — not  to  protect  their  own  skins,  but  to  save  the 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  153 

parson  from  the  mate's  wrath.  For  their  little  Nils 
was  dying,  and  Holy  Joe  was  by  his  side,  praying 
for  his  passing  soul.  As  I  learned  afterwards,  when 
the  mate  sang  out  for  his  watch  to  man  the  braces, 
all  jumped  to  obey  save  the  parson;  he  stayed  with 
Nils.  His  absence  was  noted  immediately,  for  the 
mate  was  lynx-eyed;  and  Fitzgibbon  was  all  for  in 
vading  the  foc'sle  and  hauling  out  the  truant  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck.  Aye,  Mister  Fitz  was  all  for 
teaching  a  lesson  with  boot  and  fist,  for  Holy  Joe 
was  a  small  man  and  a  pacifist,  fair  game  for  any 
bucko.  But  the  squareheads  would  not  have  it  so. 
For  Nils  was  dying,  and  Holy  Joe  was  praying  for 
his  soul. 

Suddenly  Mister  Fitzgibbon  stopped  cursing,  and 
in  a  voice  that  meant  business,  ordered  the  watch 
aft  to  the  braces.  The  stiffs  tumbled  over  them 
selves  in  their  eagerness  to  obey;  but  not  a  square 
head  budged.  They  still  stood  between  the  mate 
and  his  victim.  So  he  drew  the  revolver  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  pointed  it  at  Lindquist. 

"Lay  aft — or  I'll  splatter  lead  among  you!"  he 
said. 

He  meant  it.  He  would  have  shot  Lindquist,  I 
am  sure,  for  winging  a  man,  or  worse,  meant  little 
to  the  mate  of  the  Golden  Bough,  and  the  square 
head  bravely  stood  his  ground.  But  the  threat  to 
shoot  into  the  men  who  were  shielding  him  had  the 
effect  of  drawing  the  parson  out  of  the  foc'sle.  He 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  lighted  doorway. 


154  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"Oho,  that  brought  you  out  of  it — hey,  you. 
sniveling  this-and-that !"  hailed  Fitzgibbon.  He 
lifted  his  aim  from  Lindquist,  and  brought 
the  weapon  to  bear  upon  Holy  Joe.  "Step  aft, 
here,  you  swab,  or  I'll  drill  you  through,  s'help 
me!" 

The  words  brought  a  menacing  growl  from  the 
squareheads ;  there  was  a  stir  among  them,  and  they 
seemed  about  to  fling  themselves  upon  the  trio.  But 
Holy  Joe  checked  the  movement  with  a  word. 

"Steady,  lads,"  said  he.  "No  violence;  obey  your 
orders.  Spread  out,  there,  boys,  and  let  me  through; 
I  will  speak  with  him." 

That  was  what  he  said,  but  it  was  how  he  said  it 
that  really  mattered.  Aye,  Holy  Joe  might  have 
been  the  skipper,  himself,  from  his  air.  He  spoke 
with  authority,  in  a  deep,  commanding  voice,  and 
the  squareheads  instantly  gave  him  the  obedience 
they  had  refused  the  mate.  They  did  not,  indeed, 
tumble  aft  in  the  wake  of  the  stiffs;  but  they  did 
spread  out  and  make  a  lane  through  their  midst 
down  which  Holy  Joe  advanced  with  quick  and  firm 
step.  Right  up  to  Fitzgibbon  he  walked,  and 
stopped,  and  said  to  the  bucko's  face, 

"Put  away  that  weapon!  Would  you  add  an 
other  murder  to  your  crimes?" 

To  me,  to  the  mate  and  his  henchmen,  indeed, 
to  all  hands,  it  was  a  most  astounding  situation. 
And  perhaps  the  most  surprising  element  in  it  was 
the  fact  that  Holy  Joe  was  not  immediately  shot  or 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  155 

felled  with  a  blow,  and  the  additional  fact  that  none 
of  us  expected  him  to  be. 

It  was  the  stiff,  not  the  officer,  who  commanded 
the  deck  that  moment.  By  some  strange  magic  I 
could  not  as  yet  fathom,  the  little  parson  had  as 
sumed  the  same  heroic  proportions  Newman  had 
assumed  the  day  he  chased  the  skipper  from  the 
poop.  Oh,  it  was  no  physical  change  that  took 
place;  it  was  rather  as  if  the  man  doffed  a  mask 
and  revealed  himself  to  us  in  his  true  self.  There 
he  stood,  a  full  head  shorter  than  his  antagonist, 
with  his  head  tilted  back  to  meet  the  larger  man's 
eyes,  and  Bully  Fitzgibbon  quailed  before  his  gaze. 

I  watched  the  little  man,  awe-stricken.  I  had 
been  bred  to  worship  force,  it  was  the  only  deity  I 
knew,  and  Holy  Joe  was  in  my  eyes  the  symbol  of 
force.  He  radiated  force,  and  it  was  a  strange  and 
wonderful  force.  I  had  glimpsed  this  power  in  New 
man;  now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  saw  it  fully 
revealed.  The  only  kind  of  force  I  had  known  or 
imagined  was  brute  force,  the  kind  of  force  Mister 
Fitzgibbon  epitomized;  but  now,  in  this  duel  of  wills 
that  was  taking  place  before  my  eyes,  I  saw  another 
and  superior  power  at  work.  It  was  a  force  of  the 
mind,  or  soul,  that  Holy  Joe  employed;  it  was  a 
moral  force  that  poured  out  of  the  clean  spirit  of  the 
man  and  subdued  the  brute  force  pitted  against  him. 

"Put  down  that  weapon!"  Holy  Joe  repeated. 

Slowly,  the  mate  lowered  his  arm. 

The  parson  turned  to  the  squareheads;  aye,  he 


156  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

turned  his  back  full  upon  the  bucko,  and  the  latter 
made  no  move  against  him. 

"Obey  your  orders,  men,"  Holy  Joe  said  to  the 
sailors.  "Go  to  your  work  as  he  commands.  I  will 
stay  with  the  boy." 

The  squareheads  obeyed  without  question.  They 
knew,  just  as  all  of  us  knew,  that  their  little  cham 
pion  was  in  no  danger  of  mishandling,  at  least  not  at 
that  moment.  They  trooped  aft,  heavy-footed,  mur 
muring,  but  docile,  and  joined  the  stiffs  at  the  lee 
braces.  Holy  Joe,  now  alone  on  that  deck  so  far 
as  physical  backing  went,  turned  again  to  the  mate. 
But  indeed  he  needed  no  physical  backing;  his  in 
domitable  spirit  had  cowed  the  bucko. 

"Your  men  will  give  you  no  further  trouble,  sir; 
they  are  at  their  stations,"  said  he. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  the  "sir."  For 
an  instant  it  seemed  a  weakening.  It  gave  Mister 
Fitzgibbon  the  heart  to  bluster. 

"I  ordered  you  aft  with  the  rest,"  he  began. 
"What  d'ye  mean " 

"I  have  other  work  to  do  this  watch — as  you 
know,"  interrupted  the  parson.  He  said  the  words 
so  solemnly  and  sternly  they  sounded  like  a  judg 
ment;  aye,  and  they  nipped  the  rising  courage  of  the 
mate.  He  could  only  mumble,  and  stammer  out, 

"You — you  refuse  duty?" 

Holy  Joe  was  silent  for  an  instant.  All  of  us 
were  silent.  One  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  upon 
the  deck.  Then,  out  of  the  port  foc'sle,  a  dreadful 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  157 

sound  came  to  our  ears,  a  low,  strangled  moan.  It 
stabbed  the  vitals  of  the  most  hardened  of  us;  with 
my  own  eyes  I  saw  the  mate  tremble.  Aye,  in  some 
way  Holy  Joe  had  sent  a  fear  into  the  brute  soul  of 
Fitzgibbon;  in  some  way  he  had  sent  a  fear  into  the 
brute  souls  of  us  all,  and,  at  least  in  my  case,  a  great 
wonder.  The  pain-filled  wail  of  Nils,  coming  as  it 
did,  seemed  magic-inspired  to  light  for  me  a  uni 
versal  truth.  I  felt  it  crudely,  saw  it  dimly,  but 
there  it  was,  dramatized  before  my  eyes,  the  age 
long,  ceaseless  battle  between  the  Beast  in  Man  and 
the  God  in  Man,  the  resistless  power  of  service  and 
sacrifice.  Aye,  and  Holy  Joe's  softly  spoken  reply 
to  the  mate's  words  confirmed  what  I  saw  and  felt. 

"You  speak  of  my  duty,  sir,"  said  he.  "I  see  it — 
and  do  it!" 

With  that  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  into 
the  foc'sle. 

When  he  had  disappeared  something  seemed  to 
have  gone  from  the  air  we  breathed,  something  elec 
tric  and  vitalizing.  There  was  an  immediate  let 
down  of  the  nervous  tension  that  had  gripped  us,  a 
common  sigh,  and  a  half-hysterical  snigger  from 
some  fellow  behind  me.  Mister  Fitzgibbon  seemed 
to  come  out  of  a  trance ;  he  shook  himself,  and  stared 
at  Sails  and  then  at  Chips.  He  glared  across  the 
deck  at  us  of  the  starboard  watch.  He  even  swore. 
But  there  was  no  life  to  his  curse,  and  he  made  no 
step  to  follow  the  defiiant  stiff  into  the  foc'sle.  In 
stead,  he  went  to  the  job  at  hand,  and  quite  ob- 


158  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

viously  sought  to  regain  mastery  and  self-respect  by 
sulphuric  blustering  towards  the  men  bent  over  the 
ropes.  He  was  a  defeated  man.  He  knew  it,  and 
we  knew  it. 

A  hand  fell  upon  my  shoulder.  Newman  stood 
behind  me. 

"A  brave  act  and  a  brave  man,"  said  he.  "But 
they  will  not  let  him  keep  his  triumph."  After  a 
pause  he  added,  "They  dare  not." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

I  SEIZED  Newman's  arm  and  led  him  aside,  in 
tending  to  impart  my  news.  But  eight  bells 
struck,  and  while  they  were  striking,  Mister 
Lynch's  voice  summoned  the  starboard  watch  to 
assist  in  the  job  the  mate  had  started.  We  hurried 
aft  with  the  crowd,  and  I  found  chance  to  say  to  him 
no  more  than, 

"Be  careful;  someone  is  spying  upon  you.  Boston 
told  me — and  I  saw  him." 

"Who?" 

"I  couldn't  see.  It  was  too  dark,  and  he  cleared 
out  on  the  run.  Ask  the  Nigger." 

When  we  had  belayed,  the  watch  was  relieved, 
and  Newman  went  aft  to  the  wheel.  Lynch  kept 
the  rest  of  us  on  the  jump,  as  ever,  and  I  had  no 
chance  to  steal  a  word  with  the  Nigger  when  he 
came  forward.  At  four  bells  I  relieved  the  wheel. 
I  found  Captain  Swope  and  the  mate  pacing  the  poop 
with  their  heads  together.  As  I  took  over  the 
wheel,  Newman  whispered  to  me,  "Keep  your 
weather  eye  lifted  for  squalls,  Jackl" 

I  did  not  need  his  warning;  the  mere  presence  of 
either  of  the  pair  was  sufficient  to  keep  any  sailor- 
man  wide  awake  and  watchful  of  his  p's  and  q's 
while  steering  her.  There  was  nothing  uncommon 

i59 


160  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

about  the  Old  Man's  presence;  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  appearing  on  the  poop  at  all  hours  of  the  night, 
though  he  never  went  forward.  But  for  the  mate 
to  give  up  his  sleep  in  fair  weather  was  unprece 
dented.  There  was  something  in  the  carriage  and 
attitude  of  the  two,  as  they  slowly  paced  fore  and 
aft,  or  stood  at  the  break  staring  forward,  that  gave 
me  a  feeling  of  impending  disaster.  Aye,  I  could 
smell  trouble  coming. 

Captain  Swope  could  smell  it,  too.  That  is  why 
he  walked  the  deck  with  Fitzgibbon  by  his  side.  I 
could  feel  the  alertness  of  the  man.  Yankee  Swope 
had  his  finger  upon  the  pulse  of  his  ship.  A  mutiny, 
however  sudden,  would  not  catch  the  master  of  the 
Golden  Bough  napping.  That  is  what  I  thought  as 
I  watched  him,  and  Boston's  vague  scheme  became 
harebrained  in  my  eyes. 

The  second  mate  was  seldom  aft  during  the  two 
hours  I  stood  at  the  wheel.  The  times  he  did  ap 
pear,  he  engaged  in  conversation  with  the  Old  Man, 
beyond  my  hearing.  But  near  midnight  he  clumped 
aft  hurriedly,  bringing  the  tradesmen  with  him.  The 
strollers  happened  to  be  near  me  at  the  moment  he 
appeared,  and  he  came  towards  them,  speaking. 

"Well,  sir — he's  gone,"  he  said. 

So  I  knew  that  Nils  was  dead. 

"Very  good,"  said  Swope.     "And  the  hands?" 

"All  quiet,  sir." 

Mister  Lynch's  voice  was  quite  respectful,  but  I 
fancied  I  detected  in  it  a  note  of  contempt. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  161 

"There  was  danger  of  trouble,  even  before  the 
boy  went  out,"  he  went  on.  "Morton  stood  by  the 
door  and  heard  it  all."  This  Morton  was  the  sail- 
maker  in  the  starboard  watch.  "The  big  Cockney 
in  the  port  watch  was  all  for  trouble,  a  rush  aft  of 
all  hands;  he  said  he  had  the  backing  of  my  watch. 
The  squareheads  were  willing;  they  want  revenge. 
But  the  big  jasper  in  my  watch,  Newman,  went  into 
the  foc'sle  and  squelched  the  scheme  with  a  word. 
He  clapped  a  stopper  on  the  Cockney's  jaw,  and 
told  the  squareheads  there  was  to  be  no  trouble.  So 
there  will  be  none,  Captain." 

A  black  curse  slid  out  of  the  skipper's  mouth. 
Aye,  the  man  breathed  fury. 

"So— he  commands  for'ard,  eh?"  he  said.  "Well, 
I  command  aft."  He  seemed  to  think  over  the  mat 
ter  for  a  moment,  and  arrive  at  a  decision.  "Well, 
Mister,  if  it  doesn't  happen  to-night,  it  may  happen 
another  night,"  he  said.  "Tell  your  men  to  keep 
their  eyes  and  ears  open.  And — better  have  that 
body  carted  aft,  and  your  sailmaker  fit  him  to  can 
vas.  We'll  dump  him  at  dawn." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  replied  Lynch,  and  he  went 
forward  again. 

The  Old  Man  and  the  mate  immediately  went  into 
conference.  They  moved  over  to  the  rail,  and  spoke 
in  soft  tones,  so  I  overheard  nothing  they  said.  A 
ray  of  light  from  the  companion  hatch  fell  upon 
them,  and  watching  them  furtively,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  Captain  Swope  was  laying  down  the  law  to 


162  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Fitzgibbon,  giving  him  certain  orders,  to  which  he 
at  first  objected,  and  then  agreed. 

It  looked  wicked  to  me,  this  secretive  conversa 
tion.  My  excited  mind  saw  evil  in  it.  I  smelled 
evil,  tasted  evil,  the  very  skin  of  my  body  was 
prickled  with  the  air  of  evil  that  lay  upon  the  ship. 
A  case  of  nerves?  Aye,  I  had  nerves.  Most  sailor- 
men  had  nerves  when  they  were  within  sight  of  Cap 
tain  Swope.  This  night  he  seemed  to  drench  the 
ship  with  evil,  it  poured  out  of  him  as  ink  from  a 
squid,  it  was  almost  something  tangible.  Somehow 
I  knew  that  Newman's  long  grace  was  ended.  This 
black  villain  had  prepared  a  net  to  trap  my  friend, 
and  was  even  now  casting  it.  Somehow  I  knew 
that  fresh  wrongs  and  miseries  were  to  be  heaped 
upon  the  wretched  foc'sle.  As  I  watched  Captain 
Swope  out  of  the  corners  of  my  eyes,  God's  truth, 
I  was  afraid  to  my  marrow. 

Presently  the  second  mate  returned  aft.  "You 
may  have  your  trouble  now,  Captain,  if  you  wish," 
he  said  in  the  same  clear,  carrying  voice  he  had  be 
fore  used,  as  he  approached  the  skipper.  "The 
squareheads  won't  give  up  the  body.  They'll  fight 
if  we  take  it.  They  say  they'll  drop  him  overside 
themselves." 

The  captain  appeared  pleased  with  this  news.  He 
laughed,  that  soft,  musical  little  chuckle  of  his  that 
contained  so  much  malice  and  cruelty.  "Oh,  let  the 
dogs  dispose  of  their  own  offal,  Mister,"  he  said, 
carelessly.  Then,  when  Lynch  went  down  to  the 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  163 

main  deck,  Swope  spoke  eagerly,  though  in  low  voice, 
to  the  mate.  Aye,  the  Old  Man  was  gleeful,  and  the 
mate  received  his  instructions  with  servile  pleasure. 
Presently,  they  went  below,  and  the  yelp  of  the  cabin 
boy — roused  from  sleep,  doubtless,  by  the  toe  of  the 
skipper's  boot — and  the  subsequent  clink  of  glasses, 
told  me  they  were  toasting  the  occasion. 

I  was  consumed  with  dread.  But  just  what  to 
dread,  I  could  not  guess. 

The  Cockney  took  over  the  helm  at  midnight. 
I  hurried  forward,  eager  to  see  what  was  happening 
in  the  fore  part  of  the  ship,  and  anxious  to  speak 
with  Newman. 

The  air  of  unease,  of  expectancy,  which  I  had 
felt  so  strongly  aft,  was  even  more  evident  forward. 
My  watch,  though  off  duty,  did  not  go  below 
directly.  Men  were  standing  about  whispering  to 
each  other.  The  wheel  and  lookout  had  been  re 
lieved,  but  the  mate  did  not  summon  his  watch  to 
labor,  as  was  his  custom;  he  kept  to  the  poop,  and 
we  heard  not  a  peep  from  him.  The  squareheads 
had  taken  a  lamp  from  the  lamp-locker  and  a  sack 
of  coal  from  the  peak,  and  Lindquist  had  the  body 
of  Nils  upon  the  forehatch  preparing  it  for  sea- 
burial.  He  stitched  away  in  silence,  his  mates 
watched  him  in  silence.  But  it  was  not  a  peace 
ful  calm. 

I  found  Newman  in  the  port  foc'sle,  talking  to 
Holy  Joe.  When  I  entered,  I  heard  Newman  say: 
"They  are  good,  simple  lads — use  your  authority  as 


164  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

a  minister.  Reason,  command,  do  your  best  to  con 
vince  them  they  must  be  obedient.  Tell  them  they 
will  be  the  ones  to  suffer  in  case  of  trouble." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  the  parson  answered.  With 
a  nod  to  me,  he  went  out  on  deck. 

"Who  was  he?"  I  asked,  when  we  were  alone. 

Newman  looked  blank. 

"The  spy,"  I  added.  "Didn't  you  ask  the 
Nigger?" 

"Oh,  that — I  have  been  too  busy  to  bother  about 
it,"  was  the  careless  response.  "It  really  doesn't 
matter,  Jack;  I  dare  say  it  was  some  one  he  set  to 
dog  my  heels."  He  inclined  his  head  aft  to  indicate 
who  "he"  might  be. 

"But — remember  what  happened  that  night  on 
the  yardarm !  And — I  heard  some  of  you  talk  aft 
there;  I  couldn't  help  hearing!  I  tell  you,  Newman, 
the  afterguard  is  awake  and  waiting;  the  Old  Man 
is  afraid  of  trouble.  I  think  he  is  afraid  you  will 
lead  the  crowd,  and  try  to  take  the  ship." 

"No;  he  is  afraid  I  won't,"  said  Newman. 

I  blinked.  The  words  struck  me  with  the  force 
of  a  blow. 

The  big  man  smiled  at  my  puzzled  expression, 
and  his  hand  clapped  upon  my  shoulder  with  a  firm, 
friendly  pressure.  "Strange  things  happen  in  this 
ship,  eh,  Jack?"  said  he,  in  a  kindly  voice.  "No 
wonder  you  are  stumped,  you  are  too  young  and 
straightforward  to  be  alert  to  intrigue.  You  do  not 
understand,  yet  you  are  eager  to  risk  your  skin  in 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  165 

another  man's  quarrel?    And  you  believe  in  me,  eh, 
Jack?" 

I  felt  embarrassed,  and  a  little  resentful.  I  did 
not  like  to  be  reminded  so  bluntly  of  my  youth  and 
inexperience. 

"You  saved  my  life,  and  I  don't  forget  a  debt 
like  that,"  I  growled,  ungraciously. 

Newman  gave  a  little  chuckle.  He  knew  very 
well  it  was  liking,  not  debt,  that  made  me  his  man. 
UI  want  you  to  know,  Jack,  that  your  friendship 
is  a  strength  to  me,"  he  said,  with  sudden  earnest 
ness.  "It  is  a  strength  and  a  comfort  to  her,  too. 
Your  unquestioning  faith  in  me  has  given  both  of  us 
courage.  You  have  helped  me  regain  my  own  faith 
in  men  and  in  right.  Heaven  knows,  a  man  needs 
faith  in  this  ship!" 

Oh,  but  I  was  exalted  by  these  words  1  I  was  in 
the  hero-worship  stage  of  life,  and  this  myterious 
giant  by  my  side  was  my  chosen  idol.  The  lady  aft 
had  quickened  into  activity  whatever  chivalry  my 
nature  contained,  and  it  was  pure,  romantic  delight 
to  be  told  I  had  served  her  by  loyalty  to  the  man. 
Aye,  I  felt  lifted  up;  I  felt  important. 

"You  can  count  on  me.  I'll  back  you  to  the 
limit,"  I  said.  Then  I  rushed  on,  eagerly,  and 
blurted  out  what  was  on  my  mind.  "You  are  in 
danger;  I  know  it,  I  feel  it.  That  Old  Man  is 
planning  something  against  you.  Remember  that 
night  on  the  yardarm !  Remember  the  lady's  warn 
ing!  Look  at  Nils!  I  tell  you,  we'll  have  to  fight! 


166  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

You  can  depend  upon  me,  I'll  back  you  to  the  limit 
in  anything.  So  will  the  squareheads — you  know 
how  desperate  and  bitter  they  are.  So  will  the 
stiffs — they  arc  just  waiting  for  you  to  say  the  word. 
Every  man-jack  for'ard  will  follow  you!'* 

He  checked  me  with  stern  words.  "Put  that 
thought  out  of  your  mind!"  he  exclaimed.  "There 
will  be  no  mutiny,  if  I  can  prevent  it.  If  one  occurs, 
I  shall  help  put  it  down." 

I  was  astonished  and  crestfallen.  But  after  a 
moment  he  went  on,  more  kindly. 

"I  know  you  arc  thinking  of  my  safety,  lad,  and 
I  thank  you.  But  you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
proposing.  Mutiny  on  the  high  seas  is  madness,  and 
these  jail-birds  for'ard  would  be  worse  masters  than 
those  we  now  have.  Besides,  you  do  not  understand 
my  situation — an  uprising  of  the  crew  whether  or 
not  led  by  me,  is  the  very  thing  the  captain  expects 
and  wishes.  You  are  quite  right  in  thinking  he 
intends  to  kill  me — and  not  me  alone — but  at  pres 
ent  he  is  checkmated.  I  am  an  able  seaman,  I  do 
my  work  and  enjoy  the  favor  of  my  watch  officer, 
and  both  Lynch  and  the  tradesmen  revere  the  lady 
and  hate,  while  they  fear,  their  master.  But  in  case 
of  a  mutiny — why,  Jack,  those  fellows  aft  would 
unite,  and  back  up  Swope  in  anything  he  chose  to  do. 
Their  own  safety  would  depend  upon  it.  He  would 
have  his  excuse  to  kill." 

"But  if  we  win — "  I  commenced. 

"We  would  be  murderers,  and  our  necks  would 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  167 

be  forfeit,"  he  interrupted.  "Put  away  the  thought, 
lad,  for  only  evil  can  come  of  it.  A  mutiny  would 
mean  disaster  to  the  crew,  to  you,  to  me,  and  above 
all,  to  her.  For  her  sake,  Jack,  we  must  prevent 
any  outbreak.'* 

"For  her  sake?"  I  echoed.  I  was  aghast.  Some 
how,  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  the  lady  might 
be  in  any  danger.  "You  don't  mean  that  she  would 
be  harmed!"  I  exclaimed. 

He  nodded,  and  there  crept  into  his  eyes  an  ex 
pression  grim  and  desperate.  "I  have  cursed  myself 
for  giving  way  to  the  storm  of  hate  and  passion 
that  brought  me  on  board  this  ship,"  he  said, 
moodily.  "And  yet — it  could  not  have  been  other 


wise." 


He  observed  my  questioning  face,  and  added, 
"Swope  knows  we  have  talked  together,  she  and  I. 
He  knows  he  must  extinguish  us  both  if  he  would 
rebury  for  good  and  all  the  truth  he  thought  was 
already  buried." 

"His  wife — his  own  wife !"  I  exclaimed. 

The  words  probed  the  quick.  For  a  minute  New 
man's  reserve  was  gone,  and  the  tormented  soul  of 
the  man  was  plainly  visible. 

"It  is  a  lie,  a  legal  lie!"  he  cried. 

He  calmed  immediately.  His  self-control  took 
charge;  it  was  as  if  his  will,  caught  napping  for  an 
instant,  awoke,  and  drew  a  curtain  that  shut  out 
alien  eyes. 

I  was  dumb,  ashamed  and  sorry  to  have  unwit- 


168  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

tingly  hurt  my  friend.  But  now  he  was  speaking 
again,  in  his  accustomed  sober,  emotionless  voice. 

"Of  course,  I  trust  you  absolutely,  Jack.  I'd  like 
to  tell  you  the  whole  story.  But — I  am  not  free  to 
talk " 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  anything,"  I  blurted. 
"I  know  you  are  my  man,  and  you  know  I  am  your 


man." 


"You  are  a  friend!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  I  will 
not  sail  under  false  colors  in  your  eyes,  lad.  I  am  a 
jail-bird,  an  escaped  felon." 

"Oh,  I  knew  all  about  that  long  ago,"  I  said, 
carelessly. 

He  looked  his  surprise. 

"I  heard  that  bum's  story  through  the  wall,  that 
night  in  the  Knitting  Swede's,"  I  explained.  "I 
didn't  try  to  listen,  but  I  couldn't  help  hearing  him. 
About  the  frame-up  they  worked  on  you — Beulah 
Twigg,  and  Mary — that's  the  lady,  isn't  it? — and 
the  one  Beasley  called  'he' — I  know  'he'  is  Yankee 
Swope.  Oh,  it  was  a  dirty  trick  they  played  on 
you,  Newman.  I'm  with  you  in  anything  you  do 
to  get  even." 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling.  "What  a  young 
savage  you  are,  Jack!"  says  he.  "An  eye  for  an 
eye,  eh  ?  But  you  guess  wrongly,  lad.  That  treach 
ery  you  heard  Beasley  explain  was  but  the  beginning. 
I  was  sent  to  prison  for  a  murder,  the  brutal  and 
cowardly  murder  of  a  helpless  old  man." 

"I  know  it  was  a  frame-up,"  I  cried.    "And,  any- 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  169 

way,  I  don't  care.  I  know  you're  on  the  square,  and 
that  is  all  that  matters  with  me." 

"If  I  were  not,  your  faith  would  make  me  on  the 
square,"  he  answered.  "But — I  was  not  guilty.  I 
came  on  board  the  Golden  Bough  intending  to  be 
come  a  murderer — but  that  madness  is  past.  Now 
I  am  anxious  to  prevent  killing — any  killing.  Now 
I  am  determined  to  preserve  peace  in  this  ship. 

"For  she  is  safe  so  long  as  I  am  alive,  and  he 
cannot  easily  dispose  of  me  so  long  as  the  crew  is 
peaceful.  You  can  understand  that,  can  you  not? 
Angus  Swope  is  a  fiend;  he  is  more  than  half-insane 
from  long  indulgence  of  his  cruel  lusts.  But  he  is 
cunning.  I  am  a  menace  to  his  safety,  and  now  he 
knows  that  she  is  also  a  menace.  But  he  will  not 
offer  her  violence  or  do  her  any  harm  while  I  am  at 
large.  By  God,  it  would  be  his  death,  and  he  knows 
it.  I  give  him  no  chance  to  strike  at  me  alone  and 
openly,  so  he  is  striking  at  me  through  the  crew. 

"For  he  must  consider  the  attitude  of  his  second 
mate.  Lynch  is  her  friend,  remember  that,  Jack. 
He  is  an  honest  man.  He  is  bluff  and  harsh  and 
without  imagination,  as  brutal  a  bucko  as  one  is 
likely  to  find  in  any  ship,  but  he  is  'on  the  square,' 
as  you  put  it.  Also,  he  has  more  than  an  inkling  of 
the  true  state  of  affairs  in  the  ship.  He  knows  who 
I  am,  and  he  guesses  why  the  captain  fears  and 
hates  me.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  what  he  has  done, 
and  is  doing,  in  my — no,  in  her  behalf.  And  in 
spite  of  his  bucko's  code.  He  would  not  lift  a  finger 


170  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

to  aid  me  in  case  of  trouble  (you  remember  the 
warning  he  gave  us  that  day  we  were  in  the  rig 
ging)  for  he  is  an  officer,  a  bucko,  and  I  am  a  hand. 
But  he  would  not  stand  for  another  such  attempt 
at  murder  as  Swope  made  the  night  we  were  aloft. 
He  told  Swope  he  would  not  stand  for  it,  he  would 
not  keep  silent.  It  was  a  brave  thing  to  do,  to  defy 
such  a  master.  This  is  Lynch's  last  voyage  in  the 
Golden  Bough,  as  he  well  knows.  So  our  canny 
skipper  set  to  work  his  crooked  wits,  and  for  weeks 
he  has  been  fomenting  a  rebellion  of  the  port  watch. 
Mister  Fitz  is  a  more  pliant  and  obedient  tool  than 
Lynch." 

I  was  excited,  wide-eyed.  For  I  was  suddenly 
seeing  a  light.  The  words  I  heard  were  truth,  I 
knew.  It  explained  what  I  had  seen  and  heard  that 
night  upon  the  poop.  This  trouble  that  threatened 
v/as  made  to  order,  to  the  captain's  order,,  even  as 
Newman  said. 

"Good  heavens — then  Nils'  death — and  rtHe  haz 
ing" —  I  could  not  continue.  The  heartlessness, 
the  malignant  cruelty  of  the  man  who  had  ordered 
these  things  was  too  horrifying. 

"Nils'  injury  was  unpremeditated,  I  believe," 
said  Newman,  "but  leaving  him  die  without  atten 
tion  or  nursing  was  a  calculated  brutality,  designed 
to  inflame  the  boy's  mates.  Fitzgibbon's  bitter  haz 
ing,  without  distinction  or  justice,  was  for  the  same 
purpose.  They  kept  a  close  eye  upon  the  boy's  con 
dition;  they  evidently  figured  that  the  hour  of  his 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  171 

death  would  be  the  hour  of  explosion.  As  you  know, 
it  very  nearly  was — only  the  parson's  courage 
averted  trouble  in  the  dog-watch,  and  but  a  little 
while  ago  I  had  to  quiet  a  storm.  But  the  danger 
is  passed  now,  I  think.  The  little  fellow's  mates  are 
naturally  quiet,  law-abiding  fellows." 

"The  squareheads  may  be  kept  quiet,"  I  said, 
"but  how  about  the  stiffs?  How  about  Boston  and 
Blackie?" 

An  expression  of  disgust  and  contempt  showed 
in  his  face-as  I  mentioned  the  names.  "I  will  attend 
to  them  if  they  try  any  of  their  tricks,"  he  said. 

"But  they  are,  and  have  been,  trying  their  tricks," 
I  persisted,  "and  for  some  reason  they  are  eager  to 
have  you  know  what  they  are  up  to.  Boston  told 
me  to  tell  you."  I  repeated  Boston's  gossip.  "He 
knew  about  the  spy,"  I  said. 

He  nodded.  "I  know;  I  have  had  an  eye  upon 
them.  What  Boston  told  you  about  the  treasure  is 
quite  true;  the  ship  is  carrying  specie.  And  they 
are  precious  rascals,  capable  of  any  villainy;  I  know 
them  well,  they — they  broke  jail  with  me.  But  they 
have  wit  enough  to  know  that  their  gang  of  stiffs 
could  put  up  no  sort  of  fight,  unless  backed  by  the 
sailors  in  the  crew.  It  is  loot  they  are  after,  and 
there  will  be  trouble  from  them  before  the  ship 
makes  port;  but  now  we  are  in  mid-sea,  and  they 
realize  they  would  be  quite  helpless  with  a  ship  on 
their  hands  and  no  navigator.  That  is  what  they 
want  of  me.  A  pair  of  poisonous  rats,  Jack! 


172  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"But  they  will  keep  quiet.  They  had  better.  I 
promised  them  I  would  kill  them  both  if  they  dis 
obeyed  me!" 

I  gazed  at  the  big  man  with  admiring  awe.  He 
spoke  so  coolly,  was  so  conscious  of  the  strength 
and  power  that  was  in  himself.  Here  was  the  sort 
of  man  I  should  like  to  be,  I  thought,  here  was  the 
true  hard  case,  no  bully,  no  ruffian,  but  a  man,  a 
good  man,  a  man  so  hard  and  bright,  so  finely  tem 
pered,  he  was  to  the  rest  of  us  as  steel  to  mud. 
Oddly  enough,  as  I  had  this  thought,  it  also  occurred 
to  me  that  there  was  a  man  in  the  ship  who  might 
with  justice  claim  to  be  Newman's  peer,  another 
man  of  heroic  stature — poor  meek  little  Holy  Joe. 

"If  Swope  does  not  interfere  with  the  decent 
burial  of  that  poor  boy,  there  will  be  no  outbreak," 
added  Newman. 

"He  will  not  interfere,"  I  was  able  to  assure  him. 
I  repeated  the  skipper's  words  to  Mister  Lynch. 
"  'Let  the  dogs  dispose  of  their  own  offal!'  is  what 
he  said." 

To  my  surprise  Newman  was  disturbed  by  this 
news.  He  stared  at  me,  frowning. 

"Swope  said  that?"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  what 
is  he  up  to?" 

He  sat  thinking  for  a  moment,  then  he  said: 

"The  burial  of  Nils  is  the  weak  point  in  my 
defense.  If  Swope  offers  an  indignity  to  the  boy's 
body,  even  I  will  not  be  able  to  restrain  Nils'  mates/ 
Surely  Swope  has  guessed  that.  I  have  planned  to 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  173 

bury  the  lad  from  the  foredeck  just  as  quickly  as 
preparations  can  be  made;  that  is  why  Lindquist  is 
at  work  on  the  forehatch.  If  Swope  is  overlooking 
this  chance,  he  must  have  something  else  up  his 
sleeve." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Lindquist  must  be  nearly  finished.  I  will  carry 
out  my  plan  at  any  hazard.  Common  decency  de 
mands  we  should  not  let  the  boy  be  cast  into  the  sea 
by  the  very  men  who  murdered  him." 

At  the  door  we  were  met  by  Olson,  one  of  the 
squareheads,  come  to  tell  Newman  that  all  was 
ready  for  the  burial.  So  we  joined  the  crowd,  and 
Nils  was  put  away,  in  the  dead  of  night,  by  the 
light  of  one  lantern  and  many  stars.  The  hum  of 
the  wind  aloft  and  the  purr  and  slap  of  the  waters 
against  the  bows  were  his  requiem. 

That  scene  left  its  mark  upon  the  mind  of  every 
man  who  took  part  in  or  witnessed  it — and  every 
foc'sle  man  save  the  helmsman  saw  Nils  go  over 
the  side.  It  was  already  late  in  the  middle  watch, 
but  no  man  had  yet  gone  to  his  sleep ;  and,  consid 
ering  the  habits  of  sailors  and  the  custom  of  the 
sea,  this  single  fact  describes  how  disturbed  was  the 
common  mind. 

Yet  the  putting  away  of  Nils  was  peaceful.  We 
knew  that  the  mate  was  not  alone  upon  the  poop, 
that  the  men  aft  were  alert  and  must  know  what  was 
going  on  forward;  but,  despite  Newman's  fears, 
there  was  no  interference  from  that  quarter. 


174  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Nils'  bier  was  a  painter's  stage,  and  four  of  the 
lad's  shipmates  held  the  plank  upon  their  shoulders, 
with  the  weighted  feet  of  the  shrouded  form  pointed 
outboard.  The  rest  of  us,  sailors  and  stiffs,  stood 
about  with  bared,  bowed  heads;  aye,  and  most  of  us, 
I  think,  with  wet  eyes  and  tight  throats.  It  seemed 
a  cruel  and  awful  thing  to  see  one  of  our  number 
disappear  forever,  and  Holy  Joe's  words,  spoken 
so  softly  and  clearly,  were  of  a  kind  to  squeeze  the 
hearts  of  even  bad  men.  That  parson  had  the  gift 
of  gab;  he  was  a  skilled  orator  and  he  could  play 
upon  our  heartstrings  as  a  musician  upon  a  harp. 

Yet  he  did  not  preach  at  us,  or  even  look  at  us. 
He  wasted  no  words,  and  the  ceremony  proceeded 
with  the  dispatch  Newman  desired.  All  Holy  Joe 
did  was  lift  his  face  to  the  night  and  pray  in  simple 
words  that  Nils  might  have  a  safe  passage  on  this 
long  voyage  he  was  starting.  The  words  seemed 
to  wash  clean  our  minds.  For  the  moment  the  most 
vicious  man  in  that  hard  and  vicious  crowd  thought 
cleanly  and  innocently.  Our  wrongs  and  hatreds 
seemed  small  and  of  little  consequence.  Aye,  while 
Holy  Joe  prayed  for  the  dead  we  stood  about  like 
a  group  of  awed  children.  When  he  was  finished 
praying,  he  recited  the  beautiful  words  of  the  Serv 
ice,  and  raised  his  hand — and  the  pall-bearers  tipped 
their  burden  into  the  sea. 

Silently  we  listened  to  the  dull  splash,  silently 
we  watched  the  four  men  lower  the  stage  to  the 
deck.  It  was  oven  The  parson  fell  into  step  with 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  175 

Newman,  and  the  two  paced  up  and  down,  convers 
ing  in  low  tones.    The  crowd  dispersed. 

Some  of  my  watch  went  into  the  foc'sle,  to  their 
bunks.  Most  of  the  men  sat  about  the  decks,  and 
smoked  and  talked  in  whispers.  But  the  topic  of 
Nils  was  avoided,  as  was  talk  of  mutiny.  The 
squareheads  did  not  mutter  threats,  the  stiffs  did 
not  curse.  The  spell  of  the  parson's  words  was  still 
upon  us,  and  peace  reigned. 

Newman  had  won,  I  thought,  and  danger  was 
passed. 

I  found  the  Nigger  seated  upon  the  fore-bitts, 
whetting  his  knife  upon  a  stone.  There  was  some 
thing  sinisterly  suggestive  about  his  occupation  at 
that  hour;  it  was  the  first  break  in  the  strange  calm 
which  had  fallen  upon  the  crew. 

"Tell  me,  Nigger,  who's  the  man  that's  spying 
on  the  big  fellow?"  I  said  abruptly,  as  I  sat  down 
beside  him. 

Nigger  did  not  pause  in  his  work,  but  he  turned 
his  battered  face  to  me.  A  couple  of  days  before 
he  had  fallen  afoul  of  the  mate's  brass  knuckles  for 
perhaps  the  twentieth  time  since  he  had  been  in 
the  ship,  and  his  face  was  a  mass  of  bruised  flesh,  a 
shocking  sight,  even  though  his  color  hid  the  extent 
of  his  injuries. 

The  Nigger  had  been,  perhaps,  the  worst  misused 
man  in  the  crew — and  this  notwithstanding  the  fact 
he  was  by  far  the  best  sailor  in  the  port  watch, 
But  Fitzgibbon  hated  "damned  niggers,"  especially 


176  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

did  he  hate  "these  spar-colored  half-breeds,"  as  he 
was  fond  of  calling  this  fellow.  I  do  believe  he 
chose  the  Nigger  for  his  watch  so  he  might  pummel 
him  to  his  heart's  content.  Beat  him  up  he  had, 
constantly,  and  without  cause,  and  as  a  result  Nig 
ger  had  become  a  surly,  moody  man. 

"Who  say  dat  Ah  know?"  demanded  Nigger,  in 
reply  to  my  question. 

"Boston  said  so." 

"Dat  man's  too  free  wif  his  lip.  Ah  don't  tell 
him  Ah  knows  who's  the  spy;  Ah  tells  him  Ah  knows 
dey  is  one." 

I  waited  patiently,  for  Nigger's  temper  would 
not  bear  pressing.  He  reversed  his  stone,  spat 
upon  it,  and  resumed  his  monotonous  whetting,  then, 
after  looking  around  to  make  sure  he  could  not  be 
overheard,  he  explained  what  he  did  know. 

"Night  befoh  last  Ah  was  hangin'  'round  aft " 

"What?"  I  cried,  surprised.  "Hanging  around 
aft— what  for?" 

"Dat's  my  business,"  he  told  me,  curtly.  Then, 
after  a  moment,  he  added,  "But  Ah  don't  care  if 
yoh  know,  because  Ah  knows  yoh  ain't  no  snitch. 
Ah  was  hangin'  'round  waitin'  to  meet  Mistah  Mate 
when  he  ain't  got  them  othah  two  debbils  wif  him. 
Ah  was  waitin'  'round  to  meet  dat  man  alone.  And 
he  come  to  de  break  ob  de  poop  wif  de  Old  Man, 
and  de  Old  Man  say,  'Ah  got  a  good  man  watchin' 
every  move  he  makes;  he  can't  turn  around  in  de 
foc'sle  wif  out  me  knowin'  it.  We'll  be  wahned  befoh 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  177 

it  happens.'  Dat's  what  de  Old  Man  say  to  Mistah 
Mate.  And  Ah  knows  he  mus'  be  talkin'  about  de 
big  fellow,  and  so  Ah  tells  Boston  about  it." 

"But  didn't  you  hear  any  names  mentioned?"  I 
asked  him. 

"Dat's  all  Ah  hears,"  he  answered.  "Den  dey 
went  away." 

I  was  disappointed.  The  Nigger's  news  amounted 
to  just  nothing;  we  already  knew  that  a  spy  was 
watching  Newman.  But  indeed  this  fact  seemed  not 
so  threatening  as  it  had  a  few  hours  before.  New 
man's  careless  contempt  of  the  spy  had  made  me 
contemptuous,  too.  And,  indeed,  what  could  a  spy 
report  against  the  big  man  that  could  injure  him? 
Newman  was  openly  working  for  peace,  counseling 
obedience.  His  actions  invited  scrutiny. 

I  voiced  this  thought  to  my  companion. 

"Well,  anyway,  a  spy  can't  hurt  Newman.  He 
is  doing  nothing  underhand,  or  wrong.  He's  keep 
ing  peace  in  this  ship." 

Nigger  gave  a  queer  little  hoot  of  derision. 
"Does  Ah  look  like  peace?"  he  said.  "Dis  am  a 
debbil-ship;  Ah  tells  yoh  dey  can't  be  no  peace  in 
dis  ship  nohow." 

I  gestured  towards  the  forehatch.  A  dozen  men 
sat  upon  it,  quietly  smoking  and  gossiping.  "The 
squally  weather  is  past,"  I  said.  "Those  lads  don't 
want  trouble.  A  few  hours  ago  they  were  all  for 
fight — but  now  they've  settled  down.  And  don't 
you  try  to  start  trouble!  The  big  fellow  wants 


178  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

peace,  the  lady  wants  peace,  we  must  help  them  to 
keep  peace.  Don't  you  want  to  help  the  lady  and 
the  big  fellow?'' 

"De  lady  been  awful  good  to  me,"  said  Nigger, 
in  almost  a  whisper.  uAh  gone  crazy  long  ago  if  it 
ain't  foh  de  lady."  He  stopped  his  whetting  and 
tried  the  edge  of  the  blade  with  his  thumb;  then, 
suddenly,  he  reached  out  and  clutched  my  wrist, 
and  continued  in  a  voice  so  charged  with  pain  and 
grief,  that  I  was  appalled. 

"Ah'd  do  mos'  anything  foh  de  lady,  but,  Shreve, 
it  ain't  foh  me,  and  it  ain't  foh  any  of  us  for'ard  to 
say  what's  goin'  to  happen  in  dis  ship.  Ah  ain't  no 
sea-lawyer;  man  and  boy  Ah've  gone  to  sea  twenty 
year,  and  Ah  ain't  nebber  made  no  trouble  in  no 
ship,  no  suh.  But,  oh  mah  Lawd,  yoh  knows  what 
all's  happened  to  me  in  dis  ship !  Dey  won't  let 
me  be  a  man.  'Yoh  niggah,  yoh  black  beast !'  Dat's 
what  dey  calls  me,  and  dat's  what  dey  makes  me  I 
Ah  wants  peace,  yoh  wants  peace — but  does  dey 
want  peace?  No,  suh!  Yoh  say  de  ship  peaceful 
now?  Dis  am  a  debbil-ship,  and  dey's  a  king  debbil 
aft!  And  dey's  a  shark  overside,  and  he  wasn't 
waitin'  foh  what  jus'  went  into  the  water,  no,  suh ! 
Yoh  ebber  sail  out  East?  Yoh  ebber  see  de  quiet 
befoh  a  typhoon,  so  quiet  seems  like  yoh  can't 
breathe?  Dat's  de  kind  ob  peace  dat's  on  de  Golden 
Bough.  Ah  don'  want  to  make  no  trouble  no  time, 
but,  oh  mah  Lawd,  when  Ah  does  mah  work  right 
an'  gets  hazed  foh  it,  when  dat  mate  makes  a  beast 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  179 

out  ob  me — does  yoh  think  Ah  stand  dat  fohebber?" 
I  had  no  answer  of  good  cheer.  What  could  I 
say?  The  man's  wrongs  were  too  bitter,  his  hurts 
too  constant,  to  be  glossed  over  or  soothed  by  any 
words  I  could  think  of.  For  I  knew  he  still  had 
weeks  of  brutal  mistreatment  ahead  of  him.  This 
Nigger  was  a  man  who  would  not,  perhaps  could 
not,  cringe  and  whine — and  so  the  mate  was  "break 
ing"  him. 

But  after  all  Nigger  gave  me  the  promise  I  was 
after.  "Ah  nebber  talks  trouble.  Ah  nebber  wants 
trouble,  and  Ah  nebber  stirs  up  no  trouble.'* 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  day  following  Nils'  death  was  the  most 
peaceful  day  we  had  had  since  leaving  port. 
There  was  less  cursing  and  driving  from  the 
men  aft,  and  less  wrangling  among  ourselves.  But 
it  was  a  strange  peace.  An  air  of  suspense  lay  upon 
the  ship;  we  went  around  on  tiptoe,  so  to  speak. 
The  quiet  before  the  typhoon — aye,  Nigger's  phrase 
just  about  described  it.  We  went  around  telling 
each  other  that  the  trouble  had  blown  over,  and 
nothing  was  going  to  happen,  and  all  the  time  we 
were  watching  and  waiting  for  something — we 
didn't  know  just  what — to  happen. 

During  the  morning,  Mister  Fitzgibbon  and  his 
bullies  came  swaggering  forward  and  into  the  port 
foc'sle.  Now  that  was  a  moment  that  very  nearly 
saw  the  calm  broken;  for  an  instant  I  was  sure  there 
would  be  a  grand  blow-up.  For  the  mate  was  after 
Nils'  belongings,  his  sea-chest.  Even  though  it 
was  the  custom  to  take  a  dead  man's  gear  aft,  the 
squareheads  resented  the  removal  of  Nils'  effects. 
Especially  did  they  resent  Fitzgibbon's  part  in  the 
removal.  The  lads  in  my  watch  crowded  the  door 
connecting  the  rooms,  and  the  port  watch  men  col 
lected  on  deck  and  glowered  in  at  the  proceedings. 

The  muttered  curses  grew  in  volume.     Oh,  it 
180 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  181 

looked  like  trouble,  right  enough — for  just  a  mo 
ment.  Now  that  I  was  enlightened  as  to  the  skip 
per's  game,  I  could  see  what  the  mate  was  up  to. 
He,  who  was  largely  responsible  for  Nils'  death, 
had  come  forward  upon  this  errand  because  he 
knew — or  Swope  knew — his  presence  would  enrage 
Nils'  mates.  The  Chinese  steward,  or  the  trades 
men  alone,  could  have  taken  Nils'  gear  without  rais 
ing  a  murmur  from  the  squareheads,  but  quite  nat 
urally  they  would  resent  Fitzgibbon's  pawing  over 
the  poor  lad's  treasures. 

But  Newman  took  the  sting  out  of  the  mate's 
visit,  Newman  and  Holy  Joe,  working  separately, 
but  with  a  common  end  in  view.  Oh,  it,  was  rich — 
but  you  must  know  the  foc'sle  mind  to  understand 
how  rich  we  thought  it  was.  It  was  nothing  subtle, 
nothing  above  our  heads.  Newman  made  us  laugh, 
at  the  mate's  expense,  and — presto! — impending 
tragedy  was  turned  into  farce. 

Fitzgibbon,  himself,  was  overhauling  Nils'  gear. 
The  tradesmen  stood  idle  and  watchful,  one  near 
either  door  of  the  foc'sle.  Out  on  deck,  Holy  Joe 
was  busy;  we  could  hear  him  urging  his  crowd  to  be 
quiet  and  peaceful.  Newman  pushed  through  our 
crowd  until  he  was  fairly  into  the  port  foc'sle,  and 
there  he  stood,  filling  the  doorway,  and  effectually 
blocking  any  attempt  on  the  part  of  those  behind 
him  to  rush  the  room. 

Well,  Newman  looked  down  at  the  mate,  and  he 
commenced  to  chuckle  very  softly  to  himself.  After 


182  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

a  moment  we  began  to  chuckle  too,  every  man-jack 
of  us.  We  didn't  laugh  out  loud — not  one  of  us, 
except  Newman,  who  had  the  nerve  to  laugh  out  loud 
at  Blackjack  Fitzgibbon — but,  hidden  behind  the 
big  fellow's  back,  we  chuckled  and  snickered  readily 
enough.  And  the  butt  of  the  joke  was  the  mate, 
himself. 

It  was  the  mate's  behavior.  Anybody  could  see 
with  half  an  eye  that  the  fellow  was  looking  for 
trouble.  He  expected  trouble,  and  it  made  him 
nervous.  He  was  determined  he  would  be  ready 
for  it.  So  he  kept  one  hand  in  his  coat  pocket, 
where  he  carried  his  gun,  and  tried  with  the  other 
hand  to  cast  adrift  the  lashings  that  held  the  chest 
to  the  bunk  posts.  It  was  a  two-hand  job,  and  he 
made  slow  work  of  it.  But  he  wouldn't  call  one  of 
his  tradesmen  to  help  him — that  would  have  left  a 
door  unguarded,  you  see.  Nor  could  he  fix  his 
attention  upon  the  job;  he  kept  twisting  his  ugly 
face  this  way  and  that  way  until  his  head  looked  as 
if  it  were  on  a  pivot. 

If  Newman  hadn't  pointed  it  out,  I  doubt  if  any 
of  us  would  have  seen  the  humor  of  the  scene.  But 
Newman's  chuckle  forced  it  upon  us.  Mister  Fitz 
gibbon  did  look  ridiculous — fumbling  blindly  with 
the  ropes,  and  at  the  same  time  trying  to  keep  both 
ends  of  the  foc'sle  in  sight  at  once. 

"I'll  lend  you  one  of  my  hands,  Mister,"  said 
Newman,  suddenly. 

The  mate  glanced  at  him,  startled,  but  before  he 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  183 

could  open  his  mouth,  Newman  stepped  past  the 
tradesman  and  bent  over  one  end  of  the  chest.  "It's 
neatly  wrapped;  the  lad  would  have  been  a  good 
sailorman,  Mister,"  he  remarked  as  he  undid  the 
lashing. 

The  mate  realized  he  was  at  a  disadvantage.  He 
glared  vindictively  at  the  big  fellow,  and  snarled  an 
oath  in  reply.  Then  he  drew  a  knife,  and  committed 
the  lubberly  act  of  cutting  through  the  lashing  at 
his  end  of  the  chest.  Newman  had  finished  undoing 
the  rope  at  his  end,  and  now  he  stepped  back  into 
the  doorway. 

I've  never  been  sure,  but  I  think  Newman  did  it 
purposely.  The  rope's  end  was  spliced  about  the 
handle  of  the  chest,  and  when  he  cast  the  rope  loose, 
it  trailed  upon  the  floor.  Newman  left  the  bight 
turned  about  the  bunk-post,  and  in  such  fashion 
that  it  would  tighten  into  a  clove-hitch. 

Now  that  it  was  a  case  of  our  laughing  at  him, 
the  mate  was  eager  to  get  out  of  the  foc'sle  with  as 
little  loss  of  dignity  as  possible.  He  started  to  walk 
away,  dragging  Nils'  chest  after  him.  The  clove- 
hitch  checked  him.  He  jerked,  with  all  his  strength, 
and  his  strength  was  enormous — there  was  a  crack 
like  a  pistol  shot  as  the  bunk-post  snapped,  the  chest 
leaped  like  a  live  thing  at  the  man,  and  Fitzgibbon's 
heels  flew  out  from  under  him.  He  landed  upon  his 
back,  and  the  chest  landed  upon  his  stomach;  and 
the  wind  went  out  of  him  with  an  explosive  oof! 

Oh,  it  was  rich.    Aye,  it  was  the  kind  of  joke  the 


184  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

foc'sle  could  appreciate.  We  did  appreciate  it.  We 
did  not  quite  dare  roar  our  laughter,  but  our 
chuckles  would  have  shaken  windows  ashore.  Even 
the  tradesmen  grinned — behind  their  hands — as 
they  lifted  the  chest  from  off  their  boss,  and  him  to 
his  feet.  He  needed  assistance,  too;  he  had  no 
wind  for  curses,  and  bent  double  nursing  the  injured 
spot  while  he  grunted  at  the  tradesmen  to  ipj?k>up 
the  chest  and  carry  it  aft.  He  paid  no  attehtRm'to 
the  rest  of  us,  but  as  he  hobbled  out  of  the  foc'sle 
in  the  wake  of  the  others,  he  gave  Newman  a  look 
of  such  malignant  hatred  that  we  all  knew  just 
where  he  placed  the  blame  for  the  episode. 

It  did  not  bother  Newman,  that  look.  He  was  on 
deck  at  the  mate's  heels.  Bravado,  I  thought  at 
first,  and  I  was  close  behind  Newman,  for  I  wanted 
to  have  a  hand  in  any  further  fun.  He  followed  the 
mate  aft,  at  a  respectful  distance.  Suddenly,  I 
understood  his  action,  for  I  saw  how  warily  he  was 
watching  the  hands,  the  port  watch  squareheads, 
particularly,  who  were  bunched  about  the  foredeck. 
Newman  wasn't  following  the  mate  to  make  sport 
for  us ;  he  was  seeing  that  the  mate,  and  the  trades 
men,  got  aft  without  trouble.  He  was  seeing  to  it 
that  no  one  on  deck  gave  the  bucko  the  excuse  to 
start  trouble  that  had  been  denied  him  in  the  foc'sle. 
Aye,  Newman  was  a  wise  lad;  he  would  not  be 
caught  napping. 

Yet,  despite  his  care,  he  nearly  lost.  Mister 
Fitzgibbon  brushed  past  Cockney,  who  was  standing 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  185 

alone  by  the  forward  end  of  the  deck-house.  He 
croaked  something  at  the  man,  an  oath,  I  thought. 
Cockney  waited  until  he  passed  by,  and  then  sud 
denly  whipped  out  his  knife  and  drew  back  his  arm 
to  throw  it  at  the  mate's  back. 

Newman  might  possibly  have  reached  Cockney. 
But  he  did  not  try.  Instead,  he  leaped  in  the  other 
dir  ^!->n,  a  cat-like  bound  that  took  him  over  to  the 
ran,  t^.far  away  from  Cockney  as  he  could  get.  It 
was  Holy  Joe  who  spoiled  Cockney's  knife-play. 
He  was  standing  behind  Cockney,  and,  quick  as 
Newman  himself,  he  leaped  forward  and  struck 
Cockney's  arm.  It  spoiled  the  aim.  The  knife  did 
not  go  in  the  mate's  direction  at  all;  it  went  flashing 
across  the  deck,  and  stuck  quivering  in  the  rail. 

"You  fool!"  cried  Holy  Joe. 

The  mate  wheeled  about  at  that.  Aye,  and  he 
had  his  pistol  half  out  of  his  pocket  as  he  turned. 
We  could  see  by  his  face  that  he  understood  what 
had  happened;  indeed,  he  would  have  been  blind 
not  to  have  been  able  to  read  the  meaning  of  the 
scene — Cockney  still  bent  in  the  attitude  of  throw 
ing,  and  the  parson  clutching  his  arm.  I  expected — 
we  all  expected — he  would  shoot  Cockney.  Surely, 
this  was  his  chance,  if  he  wanted  trouble. 

But  he  hardly  glanced  at  the  man.  His  eyes 
passed  him  by,  and  darted  about  until  they  spotted 
Newman  lounging  over  there  by  the  rail,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  I  guess  it  was  an  unpleasant 
surprise  to  find  Newman  over  there,  just  opposite 


186  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

to  where  he  expected  to  find  him.  The  knife  was 
sticking  in  the  rail  close  by  Newman's  shoulder; 
there  could  be  no  connecting  it  and  Newman — 
indeed,  Newman's  own  knife  was  in  plain  view,  in 
its  sheath. 

Newman  shook  his  head.  uNot  this  time,  Mis 
ter,"  says  he. 

The  mate  was  stumped,  and  enraged.  His  face 
grew  actually  purple  with  his  choked  rage,  as  he 
glared  at  Newman.  But  he  did  not  draw  the  gun 
free  of  his  pocket;  he  had  no  excuse  to  offer  New 
man  violence,  and  he  did  not  deign  to  notice  Cockney. 
He  did  not  even  seem  to  notice  the  naked  knife. 
Slowly  his  hand  opened,  and  the  butt  of  the  weapon 
dropped  back  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  turned,  and 
went  aft. 

I  breathed  again.  So,  I  guess,  did  the  others. 
When  Fitzgibbon  was  beyond  ear-shot,  Cockney 
began  to  damn  Holy  Joe  for  spoiling  his  aim.  But 
he  didn't  get  very  far  with  his  tirade  before  New 
man  had  him  shouldered  against  the  wall  of  the 
deck-house. 

Cockney  changed  his  tune  then,  and  mighty  quick. 
For  Newman  looked  as  he  had  looked  that  day  in 
the  Knitting  Swede's;  aye,  there  was  death  in  his 
face. 

"Ow,  Gaw',  'ear  me.  Hi  didn't  mean  no  trou 
ble  1"  Cockney  bleated.  "Hit  was  the  nyme  'e  called 
me.  'E  myde  me  see  red,  that's  wot." 

"Would  have  been  a   damn  good  job  if  he'd 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  187 

landed!"  cried  Boston's  voice.  There  was  an  em 
phatic  chorus  of  approval  of  this  sentiment  from 
the  hands,  from  squareheads  and  stiffs  both.  "We'd 
have  been  rid  of  one  o'  them,  anyhow!"  piped  up 
Blackie. 

The  backing  gave  Cockney  heart.  "Hi'd  'ave 
spliced  'is  bleedin'  'eart  but  'e  spoiled  me  throw, 
the  blarsted  Bible  shark,  the " 

"That  will  do,"  said  Newman  quietly,  and  Cock 
ney  shut  up. 

"Cockney  has  the  guts,  anyway,"   says   Boston. 

"The  bucko  hain't;  he  backed  down,"  says 
Blackie. 

"That  will  do  you,"  Newman  threw  over  his 
shoulder,  and  they  shut  up. 

"If  I  were  sure — "  said  Newman  to  Cockney. 
He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  but  he  must  have 
looked  the  rest  for  Cockney  fell  into  a  terrible 
funk. 

"Ow,  s'  'elp  me,  Hi  didn't  mean  no  trouble.  Hit 
was  the  nyme  'e  called — 'e  called  me  old  mother 
hout  o'  'er  blinkin'  nyme,  that's  wot!  Hi  didn't 
mean  for  to  do  it — but  me  temper — the  wy  the 
blighter's  used  us  blokes — hand  the  nyme  on  top 
o'  that " 

"Well,  remember,  if  I  thought  for  a  moment — '* 
broke  in  Newman. 

I  thought  Cockney  would  flop  at  the  big  fellow's 
feet  this  time.  But  he  recovered  quickly  enough 
when  Newman  turned  away,  without  further  words, 


188  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

and  without  offering  to  thump  him.  He  slouched 
forward,  and  immediately  became  the  hero  of  the 
hour  with  the  gang.  Aye ;  I  was  even  a  bit  envious. 
It  took  a  hard  case  to  heave  a  knife  at  a  bucko — 
even  at  his  back. 

"But  why  didn't  he  shoot  Cockney?"  I  asked 
Newman.  "Didn't  he  see  him?" 

The  big  man  glanced  at  Holy  Joe,  and  smiled. 
"Perhaps  he  didn't  want  to  see  him,"  he  replied. 

And  I  was  so  thick-headed  I  didn't  understand. 
But  it  really  was  a  peaceful  day.  After  Nils' 
chest  went  aft,  we  might  have  been  a  comfortable 
family  ship  so  little  were  we  troubled  by  the  after 
guard.  Lynch,  of  course,  kept  his  watch  busy  while 
it  was  on  deck,  but  he  didn't  haze;  and  Fitzgibbon 
all  but  forgot  he  had  a  watch.  It  was  a  queer  rest. 
It  got  upon  my  nerves,  this  waiting  for  something — 
I  didn't  know  what — to  happen. 

It  carried  over  into  the  night,  this  unusual  quiet. 
Aye,  Captain  Swope  kept  the  deck  that  night  in  the 
first  watch,  as  well  as  Fitzgibbon,  and  not  a  single 
man  was  damned  or  thumped.  When  we  turned  out 
for  the  middle  watch,  we  found  the  port  watch  la^s 
crowing  that  they  had  farmed  away  their  hours 
on  deck. 

Well,  we  didn't  farm,  by  a  long  shot.  Trust 
Lynch  to  keep  hands  busy.  It  was  rule  number  one 
with  him.  He  sweated  us  up  in  the  usual  style,  yet 
his  manner  was  milder  than  usual  and  he  didn't 
lay  a  finger  on  even  the  most  lubberly  of  the  stiffs. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  189 

Aye,  for  the  first  time  during  the  voyage — perhaps 
for  the  first  time  in  the  life  of  the  ship — a  full  day 
passed  in  the  Golden  Bough  and  not  a  man  felt  the 
weight  of  a  boot  or  a  fist.  It  was  an  occasion,  I 
can  tell  you ! 

Yet,  for  all  of  the  afterguard's  surprising  gentle 
ness,  that  mid-watch  was  a  nightmare  to  me.  New 
man  disappeared. 

Ever  since  the  night  at  the  beginning  of  the  voy 
age  when  Captain  Swope  tried  to  snap  us  off  the 
yardarm,  I  made  it  a  practice  to  stick  close  to  the 
big  fellow  during  the  night  watches.  I  owed  him 
my  life,  and,  anyway  I  was  eager  to  give  him  the 
service  of  a  friend,  of  a  mate.  I  was  always  dread 
ing  that  Swope  would  try  again  some  dark  night, 
and  with  better  success.  It  is  so  easy  to  do  things 
in  the  dark,  you  see;  get  a  man  separated  from  the 
watch,  beyond  the  reach  of  friendly  eyes,  give  him  a 
crack  on  the  head  and  a  boost  over  the  rail,  and 
then  what  proof,  what  trace,  have  you?  Just  a 
line  in  the  logbook,  "Man  lost  overboard  in  the 
night."  Aye,  many  a  lad — and  many  an  officer — 
hi*  had  just  that  happen  to  him. 

So  it  was  that  in  the  night  watches  I  became 
Newman's  shadow.  It  was  literally  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  us,  we  handed  the  same  lines,  bent 
over  the  same  jobs.  Newman  never  mentioned  it, 
never  asked  me  to  stick  close,  but  I  knew  he  wel 
comed  the  attention.  He  knew  the  danger  of  walk 
ing  alone  in  the  dark  in  that  ship.  Mister  Lynch 


190  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

kept  his  word  and  never  again  sent  either  of  us 
aloft  at  night.  In  fact,  the  second  mate  did  more 
than  that;  from  that  night  on,  whenever  Newman 
had  a  night  wheel,  Lynch  stayed  aft  on  the  poop 
during  the  trick.  Oh,  there  was  no  friendship  be 
tween  the  two ;  I  know  that  for  certain.  Lynch  was 
an  officer,  and  Newman  just  a  hand.  But  he  was  a 
square  man,  and  he  was  seeing  to  it  that  Newman 
got  a  square  deal,  at  least  in  his  watch.  And,  I 
guessed,  the  lady  had  something  to  do  with  Lynch's 
attitude.  She  was  not  friendless  in  the  cabin,  as  I 
had  discovered. 

This  night  Newman  had  no  wheel.  Neither  had 
I.  During  the  first  half  of  the  watch  we  touched 
elbows.  As  usual,  the  second  mate  worked  sail 
and  kept  us  dancing  a  lively  jig.  He  made  work, 
Lynch  did.  He  would  walk  along  the  deck  and 
jerk  each  buntline  in  passing — and  then  order  lads 
aloft  to  overhaul  and  stop  the  lines  again.  He 
would  command  a  tug  on  this  line,  a  pull  on  that; 
no  sail  was  ever  trimmed  fine  enough  to  suit  him. 
Oh,  aye,  he  was  but  following  his  nature  and  train 
ing;  he  could  not  bear  being  idle  himself,  and  he 
knew  that  busy  men  don't  brood  themselves  into 
trouble.  And  running  a  watch  ragged  was  hell- 
ship  style. 

We'  were  aft  on  a  job — brailling  in  the  spanker, 
I  recall — when  I  missed  Newman.  An  instant  be 
fore  we  were  together,  we  had  handed  the  same 
line;  suddenly  he  was  gone  froin  my  side.  At  first 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  191 

I  thought  he  had  passed  around  to  the  other  side 
of  the  mizzenmast,  for  we  were  coiling  down  gear 
that  had  been  disarranged  during  the  job,  and  I 
was  not  worried.  But  when  the  second  mate 
ordered  us  forward  to  another  job,  my  friend  was 
not  with  the  gang. 

The  second  mate  left  one  of  his  tradesmen  aft, 
and  during  the  remainder  of  the  watch  kept  us 
forward  of  the  waist  of  the  ship.  He  drove  us, 
kept  us  jumping,  at  perfectly  useless  jobs  on  the 
head  sails.  It  was  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  my  face 
that  he  was  purposely  keeping  us  forward.  Some 
thing  was  going  on,  aft  there  by  the  boat  skids,  by 
the  break  of  the  poop ;  it  was  a  moonless  night,  but 
once  or  twice  I  saw  shadows  flitting  about  the  main 
deck. 

I  was  in  a  quandary.  Something  was  going  on 
aft — but  what?  Newman  was  missing.  The  bucko 
knew  he  was  absent  from  the  gang,  he  must  have 
known.  Yet  he  ignored  his  absence.  Was  it  treach 
ery?  Was  Newman  in  trouble?  Had  he  and  I 
been  mistaken  in  our  judgment  of  Bucko  Lynch? 
Oh,  I  was  tormented  with  fear — and  with  doubt. 
I  wanted  to  gallop  aft  and  lend  him  a  hand,  succor 
him,  at  least  help  him  to  put  up  a  good  fight.  But 
I  wasn't  sure  he  was  in  trouble,  that  he  would  wel 
come  my  advertising  his  disappearance.  Perhaps 
he  was  keeping  a  rendezvous,  with  the  second 
mate's  aid. 

That  was  what  the  other  lads  thought.     Oh,  aye, 


192  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

they  missed  him  too.  But  they  didn't  have  wit 
enough  to  realize  that  Lynch  also  had  sharp  eyes; 
they  thought  Lynch  didn't  know  Newman  was  gone. 
They  thought  it  was  a  great  joke,  a  score 
against  the  cabin.  They  thought  Newman  had 
boldly  slipped  away  from  work  to  meet  the 
lady. 

uThe  Big  Un's  queenin',  b'gawd,  right  under  the 
Old  Man's  nose!"  That's  how  Boston  put  it. 

I  did  nothing.  I  made  no  break.  Luckily.  At 
seven  bells,  Lynch  marshaled  us  aft  again,  to  set 
the  spanker  this  time.  As  we  worked,  Newman 
slipped  into  the  group  as  quietly  and  unobtrusively 
as  he  had  slipped  out  nearly  two  hours  before. 
Coiling  down  gear,  I  discovered  that  the  running 
part  of  the  spanker  vang  was  off  the  pin,  and  trail 
ing  over  the  side.  It  dropped  down  past  the  open 
and  lighted  porthole  of  one  of  the  cabin  berths. 
Whose  berth?  Well,  I  thought  that  Boston  had 
the  right  of  it.  Newman  had  been  "queeninY'  with 
his  feet  in  the  ocean,  so  to  speak. 

But  he  had  been  up  to  something  else,  as  well. 
As  he  and  I  walked  forward,  after  the  watch  was 
relieved,  we  were  overtaken  by  Lindquist,  who  was 
coming  from  the  helm. 

"Vat  you  ban  doing  mit  da  longboat  to-night?" 
he  asked  Newman,  curiously. 

"Nothing,  lad.  You  must  have  dreamed  at  your 
yvheel — understand?"  was  Newman's  prompt  reply. 

It  took  a  moment  to  filter  into  the  squarehead's 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  193 

mind.  But  he  got  it.  "So — jat  it  ban  dream ;  I  see 
noddings,"  he  said. 

"And  you  say  nothing?'* 

"Ja,  even  to  mineself  I  say  noddings,"  promised 
Lindquist. 

At  the  foc'sle  door,  Newman  placed  a  detaining 
hand  upon  my  shoulder  and  held  me  back. 

"Was  there  much  comment  among  the  hands?" 
he  asked. 

I  told  him  what  Boston  had  said,  and  that  it  was 
the  common  opinion. 

"That  will  do  no  harm,"  he  remarked.  "So  long 
as  they  did  not  see,  or  guess — yes,  it  is  a  good 
blind." 

I  was  a  little  resentful,  and  showed  it.  "You 
know  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  anything  you  don't 
want  to  tell  me,  but  I  think  you  might  have  dropped 
a  hint  in  my  ear.  How  was  I  to  know  that  the 
greaser  hadn't  played  a  trick  on  you,  and  given  you 
over  to  the  Old  Man?  I  don't  know  what  game 
you're  playing,  and  if  you  don't  want  to  tell  me  I 
don't  want  to  know — but  I  tell  you  I  came  pretty 
near  spoiling  it,  whatever  it  is.  I  was  on  the  verge 
of  going  aft  and  raising  a  row,  just  to  find  out  what 
had  become  of  you." 

"Jack,  it  isn't  my  mistrust  that  keeps  you  in  the 
dark,"  says  he.  "You  know  I  trust  you  absolutely. 
But  I  cannot  explain — others  have  that  right.  But, 
lad,  I  can  tell  you  this — things  are  moving,  aft  there, 
and  the  sky  is  brighter  for  me — and  for  her.  And, 


194  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

you  must  not  worry  about  me  if  this  should  happen 
again,  some  other  night.  I  shall  be  safe;  don't 
come  hunting  me,  it  might  ruin  everything.  You 
will  know  soon  just  what  is  happening.  And  you 
already  know,  Jack,  how  I  count  upon  you — and 
she,  too.  If  things  should  go  wrong,  if  he  outwits 
me,  it  is  your  head  and  arm  I  count  upon  to  aid 
her." 

"Anything,  any  time,"  was  my  eager  response. 
"Oh,  I  want  to  help." 

I  found  my  hand  being  tightly  squeezed  in  his, 
and  there  was  a  little  catch  in  his  voice.  "A  thick- 
and-thin  friend,  eh,  Jack?  I've  learned  something 
about  friendship  since  I  have  known  you." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THIS  strange  peace,  this  interlude  of  quiet, 
lasted  for  several  days.      It  was  a  curious 
time,  a  period  of  uneasy  suspense  for  me,  for 
I  could  feel  hell  simmering  beneath  the  smooth  sur 
face  of  the  ship's  life,  but  I  could  not  see  it,  or 
guess  when  or  where  it  would  bubble  over. 

Even  Lynch  toned  down  his  adjectives,  and 
slackened  his  driving.  He  was  commanded  to  do 
so  by  Captain  Swope  while  the  watch  was  within 
hearing.  The  Old  Man  told  him  to  ugo  easy  with 
those  boys,  Mister;  we've  made  it  too  hard  for 
them  this  voyage."  Aye,  that  was  a  nice  bitter  pill 
for  Bucko  Lynch  to  swallow  before  his  watch;  oh, 
the  lads  enjoyed  it,  I  can  tell  you. 

Fitzgibbon,  the  roaring  lion,  became  the  bleating 
lamb.  He  hardly  worked  his  men  during  those 
days,  let  alone  haze  them.  He  let  Nigger  alone. 
He  stopped  swearing  at  Holy  Joe.  Why,  a  man 
might  fancy  from  his  manner  that  he  had  become 
afraid  of  his  men.  Aye,  a  man  might  fancy  from 
their  behavior  that  the  lot  of  them  aft  possessed  a 
sudden  fear  of  the  crew.  Even  the  tradesmen  were 
publicly  ordered  to  treat  the  men  with  civility.  But 
I  didn't  fancy  they  were  afraid.  I  knew  better.  It 
was  part  of  the  game  Swope  was  playing. 

195 


196  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"I  took  the  trick  when  Nils  died,"  explained 
Newman,  when  I  asked  him  what  the  new  program 
meant,  "and  now  our  sweet  captain  is  dealing  a  new 
hand,  from  a  cold  deck.  He  is  nursing  the  scum, 
because  this  time  he  will  strike  through  them,  instead 
of  through  the  squareheads." 

By  "scum,"  Newman  meant  our  unsavory  mob  of 
stiffs.  And  indeed  they  were  being  "nursed,"  and 
without  even  suspecting  it.  Inevitably,  the  un 
wonted  gentleness  of  the  men  aft  was  interpreted  as 
weakness  and  fear,  and  of  course  their  stiffs'  courage 
mounted  and  slopped  over.  Aye,  he  was  a  canny 
brute,  was  Captain  Swope;  he  knew  just  how  to  play 
such  a  crowd  as  we  were.  And  I  think  he  thor 
oughly  enjoyed  such  a  cat-and-mouse  game. 

There  was  valorous  talk  in  the  foc'sle,  and  half- 
veiled  insolence  on  deck.  These  cringing  stiffs  began 
to  swank  and  swagger.  They  began  to  bluster 
openly  about  what  they  could  do  and  would  do; 
they  began  to  tell  each  other  how  easy  it  would  be 
to  "dump  'em  over,  and  take  charge  o'  the  hooker." 
That's  the  sort  they  were.  It  took  bucko  methods 
to  keep  them  decent. 

Blackie  and  Boston  were  plainly  jubilant  over  this 
turn  of  events.  Now  they  were  fairly  shrewd  men, 
even  if  they  were  damned  rascals,  and  one  would 
have  thought  they  possessed  sufficient  insight  to  at 
least  be  suspicious  of  the  skipper's  sudden  'bout- 
face.  But  they  were  not.  They  were  just  as  con 
vinced  as  the  rest  of  the  stiffs  that  the  afterguard 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  197 

had  suddenly  become  afraid  of  the  foc'sle.  Just 
lack  of  imagination,  I  suppose;  I've  read  that  it  is 
usually  a  characteristic  of  professional  criminals. 

They  ceased  hinting  darkly  and  whispering  in 
corners,  and  came  out  flat-footed  with  their  great 
news.  Aye,  and  it  was  a  weighty  argument  with 
the  stiffs.  Even  though  they  knew  about  it  already 
— as  most  of  them  did — it  was  a  delight  to  talk 
about  it  openly.  There  was  money  in  the  hooker. 
That  is  what  made  their  tongues  wag.  Aye,  money; 
kegs  and  kegs  of  shining  trade  dollars,  aft  in  the 
lazaret,  to  be  had  for  the  taking  by  lads  with 
stiff  backbones.  And  their  backbones  were  stiff 
enough  for  the  job.  So  Boston  and  Blackie  told 
them,  so  Cockney  told  them,  so  they  told  each- 
other. 

It  surprised  me  that  Newman  ignored  this  state 
of  affairs  among  the  stiffs.  He  could  have  clapped 
stoppers  on  Boston's  and  Blackie's  jaws  by  just  tell 
ing  them  to  shut  up.  They  stood  in  such  awe  and 
fear  of  him.  He  could  have  as  easily  silenced  Cock 
ney;  aye,  and  the  gang,  too.  We  all  stood  in  awe 
of  him.  There  wasn't  a  man  forward  who  would 
dream  of  opposing  him  openly. 

But  Newman  was  contemptuous  of  stiffs'  talk. 
"Oh,  let  them  blow  off  steam,"  says  he.  "Big  talk, 
small  deeds;  that's  their  caliber,  Jack.  They'll  have 
their  sauciness  hammered  out  of  them  quickly 
enough  when  Swope  plays  his  next  card." 

"Aye,  but  what  if  Blackie  and  Boston,  or  that 


198  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Cockney,   make   trouble?     They   are   bossing   the 
stiffs." 

"Those  two  jail-birds  know  what  I  will  do  ta 

them  if  they  go  beyond  talk,"  said  Newman.     "As 

for  that  Whitechapel  beauty,  he  is  quite  harmless,, 

I  think.     They  would  not  follow  him  into  a  fight; 

they  know  he  is  scum,  like  themselves,  for  all  his 

bluster.     They  would  follow  me,  or  you,  if  we  led 

the  sailors  aft.    But  so  long  as  the  sailors  are  quiet, 

: there  is  no  danger.     That  scum  would  not  fight 

» alone.    And,  as  you  know,  our  little  friend  has  his 

'Norsemen  eating  out  of  his  hand." 

This  last  was  certainly  true.  By  "our  little 
friend"  Newman  meant  Holy  Joe.  The  square 
heads  idolized  him.  For  one  thing,  his  being  a 
parson  gave  him,  from  the  beginning,  standing  with 
them.  They  were  decent,  simple  villagers,  with  an 
inbred  respect  for  the  cloth.  But  more  important, 
was  the  service  he  had  rendered  their  dead  ship 
mate.  They  were  not  the  men  to  forget  a  thing 
like  that,  or  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  fine  courage 
Holy  Joe  had  exhibited  when  he  faced  the  angry 
mate. 

Now  there  was  a  curious  thing.  The  decent  men 
in  the  crew  gave  Holy  Joe  unstinted  admiration ;  his 
bravery  that  day  clinched  his  authority  over  the 
squareheads.  They  would  have  done  almost  any 
thing  for  him;  aye,  they  loved  the  little  man,  and 
admired  him.  Yet  the  stiffs  were  not  much  im 
pressed  by  what  Holy  Joe  did  to  the  mate.  I  guess 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  199 

they  simply  couldn't  understand  it.  But  Cockney's 
trying  to  stick  a  knife  into  the  mate's  back  quite 
captured  their  fancy.  Aye,  that  attempted  murder 
was  a  great  deed;  it  made  Cockney  their  hero.  I 
won't  say  that  the  rest  of  us  damned  Cockney.  We 
were,  after  all,  foc'sle  savages,  and  our  hatred  of 
Fitzgibbon  was  very  bitter.  But  it  took  the  stiffs  to 
honor  Cockney  for  that  knife-play. 

Well,  Newman  might  dismiss  this  fellow  with  a 
contemptuous  word,  but  I  couldn't.  Cockney  had 
become  a  rival  I  must  reckon  with.  I  didn't  like  the 
way  he  lorded  it  over  the  stiffs  in  my  watch,  even  if 
the  stiffs  themselves  did  like  it.  I  didn't  like  the 
noise  he  made  in  the  starboard  foc'sle,  or  the  hard 
case  airs  he  assumed.  I  was  number  one  bully  in 
niy  watch,  and  intended  to  remain  so.  I  was,  in 
fact,  cock  of  the  crew  (Newman  excepted,  of 
course)  and  I  thought  that  Cockney's  chesty  boast 
ing  was  in  a  way  a  defiance  of  me. 

No  doubt  I  was  right.  As  I  discovered  in  time, 
Cockney  had  a  good  reason  behind  his  blatant 
tongue.  It  was  necessary  that  he  accustom  some  of 
the  crew,  even  a  few  stiffs  if  no  more,  to  follow  his 
leadership.  But  he  couldn't  blow  big  in  his  own 
foc'sle,  because  Holy  Joe  wouldn't  allow  it;  and 
he  didn't  dare  lay  a  curse  or  a  finger  on  the  little 
parson  because  he  knew  if  he  did  the  squareheads 
would  jump  him  in  a  body.  So  he  ventured  into 
my  bailiwick,  hoping,  I  suppose,  that  the  open  sup 
port  of  Boston  and  Blackie,  his  size,  which  matched 


200  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

my  own,  and  his  newly  got  reputation  as  a  bad  man 
with  a  knife,  would  bluff  me. 

It  didn't.  His  dirty  and  violent  talk  sickened 
and  wearied  me,  and  just  as  soon  as  I  had  a  reason 
able  pretext  I  ordered  him  out  of  the  foc'sle.  This 
wasn't  as  high-handed  as  it  sounds,  for  Cockney 
had  the  gall  one  afternoon  to  leave  the  deck  during 
his  watch  out,  and  break  into  my  watch's  rest  with 
his  obscene  gabble. 

He  was  disposed  to  dispute  my  order,  and  the 
stiffs  backed  him  up  with  talk.  So  I  turned  out  and 
turned  to.  I  slapped  a  few  stiffs,  and  threw  Cockney 
through  the  door.  He  invited  me  out  on  deck,  and 
of  course  I  accepted.  We  had  a  nice  set-to  before 
all  hands.  Even  the  tradesmen  came  forward  to 
see  the  sport. 

Well,  Newman's  estimate  of  the  man  was  correct. 
Cockney  was  scum,  yellow  scum.  His  fighting 
methods  were  as  foul  as  his  tongue;  he  tried  all  of 
his  slum  tricks,  the  knee,  the  eye-gouge,  the  Liver 
pool-butt,  and  when  he  found  I  was  up  to  them,  and 
the  stronger  man  in  the  clinches,  he  wanted  to  call 
enough.  But  I  was  too  incensed  by  this  time  to  let 
him  escape  easily,  and  I  battered  him  all  about  the 
foredeck.  Finally  he  turned  tail  and  fled  aft.  Of 
course  I  did  not  pursue  beyond  the  deck-house.  His 
fleeing  the  battle  really  pleased  me  more  than  knock 
ing  him  out.  I  felt  sure  that  such  an  ignominious 
defeat  would  cook  his  goose  with  the  stiffs. 

It  did.     Boston  and  Blackie  stopped  grooming 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  201 

Cockney  for  mob  leader;  they  had  seen  that  he 
lacked  guts  in  a  pinch,  and  that  finished  him  with 
them.  The  other  stiffs  still  welcomed  and  admired 
him  (for,  although  he  was  a  good  sailor,  he  was 
one  of  them  at  heart,  and,  after  all,  hadn't  he  tried 
to  stick  the  mate?),  but  he  was  no  longer  their 
hero.  Aye,  it  was  quite  a  fall  for  Cockney;  he  lost 
a  lot  of  face  when  he  ran  away  from  my  fists.  He 
kept  out  of  my  foc'sle  thereafter. 

I  mentioned  that  this  fight  started  because  Cock 
ney  came  into  our  foc'sle  during  his  watch  on  deck. 
Now,  that  illustrates  the  surprising  slackness  of  dis 
cipline  in  the  port  watch.  Just  a  few  days  before 
the  mate  was  ready  to  shoot  Holy  Joe  for  going 
below  during  his  watch  on  deck,  but  he  never  both 
ered  his  head  about  Cockney's  much  worse  offense. 
In  fact,  during  these  strange  days  he  seemed  not  to 
bother  his  head  about  anything  his  men  did.  He 
promenaded  on  the  poop  during  his  watches  on  deck, 
alone,  or  arm-in-arm  with  the  captain,  and  just 
about  left  the  ship  to  sail  herself.  No  wonder  the 
stiffs  commenced  to  believe  they  could  take  liberties; 
in  fact,  they  could  take  them  in  the  mate's  watch, 
and  get  away  with  it. 

But  they  couldn't  take  liberties  in  the  second 
mate's  watch.  You  bet  they  couldn't !  Bucko  Lynch 
curbed  his  vocabulary  and  stopped  using  his  fists, 
as  the  captain  ordered,  but  he  didn't  stop  working 
his  men.  There  was  no  slackness  in  his  watch;  he 
kept  us  up  to  scratch.  That  made  the  starboard 


202  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

stiffs  especially  bitter  against  him.  They  felt  them 
selves  cheated  of  the  easy  times  Fitzgibbon's  men 
were  having. 

But  the  sailors  didn't  feel  that  way  about  it. 
They  were  worried,  just  as  I  was.  The  sailors  knew 
ships  as  the  stiffs  did  not.  They  could  feel  ships. 
Those  dumb  squareheads  could  not  reason  it  out  as 
I  could  (with  Newman's  assistance),  but  they  could 
feel  the  undercurrent  of  intrigue.  They  were  glad 
to  escape  the  thumpings  to  which  the  mates  had 
accustomed  them;  but  they  were  not  satisfied  with 
the  new  order  for  they  could  feel  that  this  strange 
peace  was  unreal,  unhealthful.  Aye,  the  calm  before 
the  typhoon.  They  felt  it  just  as  I  felt  it,  just  as 
Nigger  felt  it.  As  for  pessimistic  Nigger,  so 
strictly  did  he  mind  his  own  business  these  quiet 
days  he  was  like  a  dumb  man,  a  silent  brown  shadow. 
But  he  went  on  sharpening  his  knife. 

To  heighten  the  squareheads'  foreboding,  and  to 
scare  the  wits  half  out  of  us  all,  Nils'  ghost  visited 
the  ship.  You  know  what  sort  of  men  we  were  in 
that  foc'sle;  save  Newman  and  the  parson,  we  were 
ignorant  men,  and  superstitious.  We  all  believed 
implicitly  in  ghosts,  I,  and  the  squareheads,  Nigger 
and  Cockney,  and  even  the  stiffs  who  had  not  the 
sea  in  their  blood.  Aye,  even  Blackie  and  Boston 
believed  in  haunts.  It  seemed  reasonable  to  us  that 
Nils  should  come  back  to  the  scene  of  his  earthly 
misery.  Reasonable,  and  fearsome. 

Nils  came  at  night,  in  the  middle  watch,  always  in 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  203 

the  middle  watch.  That  circumstance  might  have 
aroused  suspicion  in  sceptical  minds.  But  we  were 
not  sceptical. 

Lynch  had  us  busy  forward  this  night.  Aye,  it 
had  become  a  practice  with  him  to  keep  us  busy  in 
the  fore  part  of  the  ship  during  the  night  watches. 
One  of  his  tradesmen,  Connolly,  kept  the  poop 
watch  for  him.  No,  we  did  not  think  this  arrange 
ment  odd;  we  worked  too  hard  to  think. 

Newman  had  the  first  wheel.  At  four  bells,  a  lad 
named  Oscar  went  aft  to  relieve  the  big  fellow.  A 
moment  later  he  reappeared  forward,  wild-eyed  and 
spluttering  his  own  lingo.  Oh,  he  was  a  frightened 
squarehead.  All  we  could  understand  of  his  speech 
was  the  word  "Nils." 

The  word  was  enough.  We  didn't  need  the  com 
motion  and  consternation  among  Oscar's  country 
men  to  help  us  interpret.  He  had  seen  Nils. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  demanded  Lynch. 

Lindquist  answered  for  Oscar.  Nils  was  at  the 
wheel.  Oscar  had  gone  aft  to  relieve  Newman,  and 
he  had  seen  his  dead  shipmate  at  the  wheel,  steering 
the  ship.  He  was  afraid  to  relieve  a  ghost. 

"Oh,  rot!"  says  Lynch.  "Here,  come  along  aft 
with  me,  the  lot  of  you.  We'll  lay  this  ghost." 

Oscar  did  not  want  to  go  aft  again,  but  he  had  to. 
It  was  better  to  face  a  ghost  than  disobey  Bucko 
Lynch.  That  is  what  the  rest  of  us  thought,  too. 
We  were  all  afraid  to  go  aft,  but  more  afraid  not 
to.  So  we  huddled  close  upon  the  second  mate's 


204  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

heels,  and  clumped  noisily  upon  the  deck,  as  though 
to  rout  the  wraith  with  our  racket. 

Perhaps  our  racket  did  send  Nils  away.  It  cer 
tainly  aroused  the  men  sleeping  in  the  cabin,  and  the 
roundhouse.  But  we  saw  Newman  at  the  helm,  not 
Nils. 

"Well,  m'son,  where's  your  ghost?"  demanded 
Mister  Lynch. 

Oscar  was  still  too  frightened  to  muster  his  scant 
English,  *but  Lindquist  talked  for  him.  "He  say 
like  dis,  sir,  Nils  ban  at  da  wheel  when  he  koom  aft, 
oond  den  he  yump  vrom  der  wheel  oond  run  for'ard 
yust  like  da  time  da  captain  thoomp  him." 

"Rot!"  says  Lynch.  "My  man,  have  you  per 
mitted  a  ghost  stand  your  trick  at  the  wheel?"  This 
last  to  Newman. 

"Hardly  a  ghost,  sir,"  answered  Newman.  We 
could  not  see  his  face,  but  from  his  tone  I  knew  he 
was  smiling.  "Do  I  look  like  one  ?  Not  yet,  I  hope. 
I  was  just  about  to  turn  over  the  wheel  to  the  lad, 
sir,  when  he  shied — at  the  shadow  of  the  mizzen 
stays'l  I  think — and  rushed  away  for'ard." 

"What  is  wrong,  Mister?"  inquired  the  captain's 
soft  voice.  Aye,  we  all  jumped  as  if  it  were  the 
ghost  talking.  Captain  Swope,  with  Mister  Fitz- 
gibbon  behind  him,  had  popped  up  from  below  as 
quietly  as  if  he  were  a  ghost. 

"Nothing  wrong,  Captain,"  replied  Mister  Lynch. 
"One  of  my  jaspers  declared  he  saw  the  little  square 
head's  ghost  dancing  about  the  poop,  and  now  the 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  205 

lot  of  them  have  nerves.  I  brought  them  aft  to 
teach  them  better  in  a  peaceful  way." 

This  was  a  straight  dig  at  the  Old  Man's  "be 
gentle"  orders,  but  it  didn't  pierce  his  skin.  Swope 
laughed,  genuinely  amused,  his  soft,  rippling  laugh 
that  always  frightened  us  so  much.  "Peaceful,  eh? 
By  the  Lord,  Mister,  it  sounded  like  an  army  over 
head.  And  it  was  no  more  than  a  ghost!"  He 
peered  aft,  and  discerned  Newman  at  the  wheel, 
recognizing  him  by  bulk,  I  guess,  for  the  binnacle 
lights  were  half  shuttered  and  Newman's  face  in 
visible.  But  I'm  sure  he  recognized  him,  for  he 
pursed  his  lips  in  a  way  I  had  seen  him  do  before 
when  he  looked  at  Newman.  He  strolled  away  for 
ward,  to  the  break  of  the  poop,  glancing  this  way 
and  that,  and  back  again  to  the  hatch.  "If  it  were 
moonlight,  I'd  say  your  man  was  touched,"  says  he 
to  Lynch.  "But  I  suppose  he  was  half  asleep  and 
dreaming." 

"I'll  wake  him  up  and  work  the  dreams  out  of 
him,"  promised  Mister  Lynch. 

"But  no  hazing,  Mister.  The  men  are  in  bad 
enough  temper  as  it  is." 

Aye,  thus  to  Lynch,  as  though  the  rest  of  us  were 
beyond  ear-shot.  But  all  the  time  his  eyes  were 
upon  us,  measuring  the  effect  of  his  words.  Oh,  he 
was  a  sly  beast,  a  "slick  one,"  as  Beasley  said. 

"Which  is  the  lad  who  beheld  this — ghost?"  he 
added. 

The  second  mate  shoved  Oscar  forward  so  that 


206  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

he  stood  in  the  light  that  streamed  up  from  the 
cabin. 

"So  one  little  ghost  scared  you,  eh?"  says  he  to 
poor  trembling  Oscar.  "Why,  my  man,  if  all  the 
ghosts  in  this  ship  were  to  begin  walking  about,  we 
living  men  would  be  crowded  into  the  sea."  With 
that  he  went  below,  laughing,  as  though  he  had  just 
made  a  fine  joke,  and  leaving  us  more  frightened 
than  ever. 

The  mate  went  below  again  also,  but  he  wasn't 
laughing.  We  sensed  that  the  news  worried  Fitz- 
gibbon,  and  that  strengthened  our  conviction. 
Blackjack  Fitzgibbon  had  cause  for  worry.  So 
we  thought.  Wasn't  it  he,  as  well  as  Swope,  who 
mishandled  the  boy  to  his  death? 

That  ended  the  scene  aft.  Oscar  relieved  the 
wheel ;  he  had  to.  Lynch  put  the  rest  of  us  to  work 
again,  and  during  the  balance  of  the  watch  we  saw 
ghosts  in  every  corner. 

When  we  went  below  at  eight  bells,  we  held  a 
grand  talk  in  the  foc'sle,  a  parliament  that  practi 
cally  all  hands  attended.  Aye,  we  were  quite  con 
vinced  that  the  ghost  was  abroad.  Oscar  stuck  to 
his  yarn,  and  embellished  it,  and  left  no  room  in  our 
minds  for  doubt.  Newman  laughed  at  us,  and 
denied  the  presence  of  a  spook  on  the  poop;  that 
done  he  turned  in  and  slept.  But  his  evidence 
didn't  shake  our  belief.  Oscar  gave  too  many  par 
ticulars. 

The  compass  had  not  been  shuttered  when  he 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  207 

went  aft  to  relieve  the  wheel,  and  he  had  seen  Nils 
standing  in  the  light.  He  couldn't  be  mistaken. 
"Yust  as  plain  like  a  picture."  He  knew  him  by  his 
boyish  stature,  by  his  beardless  features,  by  his 
clothes.  He  was  wearing  his  Scotch-plaid  coat  and 
red  tam-o'-shanter;  Oscar  couldn't  be  mistaken  in 
them,  because  he  had  helped  Nils  pick  them  out  in 
a  Glasgow  slops  shop  "last  ship."  Didn't  his  mates 
remember  those  togs? 

His  mates  remembered  them.  So  did  the  rest  of 
us.  That  coat  and  cap  had  hung  on  the  wall  oppo 
site  Nils'  bunk  all  during  his  illness.  He  was  very 
proud  of  these  colorful  garments.  Of  course,  we 
told  each  other,  he  would  appear  in  them  after  death. 
And,  of  course,  he  was  bound  to  come  back.  Didn't 
murdered  men  always  come  back?  So  we  assured 
each  other;  and  the  older  men  began  spinning  yarns 
about  other  ghosts  in  other  ships.  Aye,  we  talked 
so  much  we  were  afraid  to  turn  in.  Captain  Swope's 
words  about  the  ghost  crew  in  the  Golden  Bough 
impressed  us  mightily.  We  told  each  other  that 
many  men  must  have  died  cruel  deaths  in  this  no 
torious  hooker ;  very  likely  Nils'  spirit  was  but  one  of 
many.  Some  of  the  lads  recalled  mysteries  of  the 
night  that  they  had  encountered  in  this  ship,  shadowy 
things  melting  into  darkness,  strange  noises,  and  the 
like ;  and  always  they  had  seen  or  heard  these  things 
aft,  around  the  break  of  the  poop  or  beneath  the 
boat  skids — in  just  about  the  spot  where  Nils  had 
been  beaten  up,  first  by  the  skipper  and  then  by  the 


208  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

mate.  Aye,  Nils  gave  us  the  creeps.  Another  herald 
of  storm,  I  felt. 

Next  night  Nils  did  not  walk,  though  the  lads  in 
both  watches  insisted  they  saw  and  heard  things  that 
were  not  right  or  natural.  The  night  following  in 
the  midwatch — our  midwatch — half  the  watch 
swore  they  saw  him  flit  across  the  main  deck  and  dis 
appear  behind  the  roundhouse. 

The  next  night  marked  Nils'  last  and  most  start 
ling  appearance.  In  the  heart  of  the  middle  watch, 
while  my  mates  were  sound  asleep,  the  ghost  walked 
into  the  empty  port  foc'sle. 

That  is,  the  port  foc'sle  should  have  been  empty, 
since  the  mate  had  the  watch  out.  But  it  happened 
that  Nigger,  coming  from  the  wheel,  seized  an  op 
portunity  to  slip  into  the  deserted  room  for  a  quiet 
smoke-O.  It  was  a  liberty  he  was  safe  in  taking, 
now  that  the  bucko  mate  had  reformed. 

My  bunk  in  the  starboard  foc'sle  was  handy  to 
the  door  connecting  the  two  rooms,  and  when  he 
burst  terror-stricken  through  that  door  my  uncon 
scious  head  was  right  in  front  of  him.  I  awakened 
abruptly  to  discover  Nigger  clawing  my  hair;  aye, 
and  when  I  looked  up  and  saw  his  convulsed  face 
and  gleaming,  bulging  eyes,  I  knew  at  once  he  had 
seen  Nils. 

He  was  too  scared  to  talk;  he  could  only  stutter. 
"Gug-gug-gug-God!"  But  he  pointed  into  the  other 
foc'sle. 

Well,  my  bowels  were  water,  as  the  saying  is,  but 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  209 

nevertheless  I  turned  out  promptly.  I  had  to. 
Other  men  were  waking  up.  Even  Newman,  in  the 
bunk  opposite,  had  his  eyes  open;  and  he  was  re 
garding  me  in  a  very  curious  way.  So  I  couldn't 
hold  back.  I  was  bully  of  the  crowd,  and  I  would 
not  let  the  crowd  think  I  was  afraid  to  face  any 
thing,  even  a  ghost. 

Out  I  rolled,  and  into  the  doorway  I  stepped. 
There  I  stopped.  God's  truth,  I  was  frozen  to  the 
spot  with  terror.  For  Nils'  shadow  lay  athwart  the 
floor  of  the  port  fo'sle,  his  moving  shadow.  It  was 
this  shadow  coming  in  through  the  deck  door  that 
had  frightened  Nigger.  He  recognized  the  shadow 
as  Nils  because  a  tam-o'-shanter  crowned  the  sil 
houette,  and  Nils  had  owned  the  only  tarn  on  board. 

I  recognized  that  awful  shadow,  too.  But  I  saw 
more  than  the  shadow.  I  saw  a  white  hand  appear 
on  the  door  jamb.  A  ghost-like  hand,  it  was  so 
white  and  small,  a  patch  of  plaid  cloth,  a  little  bare, 
white  foot  lifting  above  the  sill,  and  then  the  tarn 
and  the  white  face  beneath  it.  Aye,  that  white  face 
with  its  great,  staring  eyes ! 

So  much  I  saw  during  the  instant  I  stood  in  the 
doorway.  Then  Newman  pushed  past  me  and 
crossed  the  port  foc'sle  in  a  bound.  He  joined  the 
white  face  in  the  other  doorway,  and  disappeared 
with  it  into  the  outer  darkness. 

Not  a  man  save  I — and  Newman — had  had  nerve 
enough  to  turn  out.  Not  a  man  save  I — and  New 
man — had  seen  that  white  face.  Even  Nigger  had 


210  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

not  seen  it;  he  had  run  out  on  deck  through  the 
starboard  door.  But  my  watch-mates  were  awake 
and  eager.  "Is  it  gone?"  they  chorused. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  gruffly.  I  rolled  into  my  bunk, 
and  turned  my  face  to  the  wall.  My  wits  were  still 
spinning  from  shock,  and  I  didn't  want  to  answer 
questions. 

"Where  did  Big  'Un  go?"  came  from  Blackie's 
bunk. 

"How  do  I  know?  Stow  the  guff,  the  lot  of  you; 
I  want  to  sleep." 

But  I  didn't  sleep.  I  lay  there  thinking  about  the 
face  I  had  seen.  Nils'  shadow,  Nils'  clothes — and 
the  lady's  face  I  The  ghost  that  had  scared  all  hands 
was  the  lady  dressed  in  Nils'  clothes ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  lady  brought  Newman  bad  news.  As  I 
afterwards  learned,  the  steward  overheard 
a  conversation  between  the  captain  and  the 
mate,  and  reported  it  to  her,  and  she  immediately 
risked  her  masquerade  forward  to  carry  the  tale  to 
Newman. 

During  the  morning  Newman  said  to  me,  "Watch 
your  step  to-day,  Jack.  Trouble  brewing." 

I  watched  my  step,  but  not  until  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  watch,  when  I  went  aft  to  relieve  New 
man  at  the  wheel,  did  I  see  any  indications  of  a 
coming  breach  of  the  afterguard's  own  peace.  I 
sensed  it  then,  before  I  saw  it.  Aye,  as  soon  as  I 
stepped  upon  the  poop  I  smelled  the  old  air.  The 
very  carriage  of  the  officers  said  that  the  old  times 
were  back  again. 

Newman  gave  me  the  course.  I  repeated  it  aloud, 
as  is  the  custom.  Then  he  whispered,  hurriedly. 

"I  think  he  intends  to  lock  me  up.  Help  Deakin 
keep  peace  for'ard.  Remember,  lad,  my  life — and 
hers — may  depend  upon  it." 

He  started  forward.  I  wanted  to  call  after  him, 
run  after  him,  ask  him  a  score  of  questions  and 
directions. 

But  I  was  chained  to  my  task.     I  dare  not  leave 

211 


212  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

the  wheel.  Neither  dare  I  call  out.  For  Captain 
Swope  had  appeared  on  deck.  He  stood  lounging 
against  the  companion  hatch,  staring  aft,  in  our  di 
rection.  Bucko  Fitzgibbon  stood  by  his  side.  They 
had  suddenly  appeared  from  below  as  the  helm  was 
changing  hands. 

Aye,  and  as  soon  as  I  clapped  eyes  upon  them  I 
knew  that  at  last  hell  was  about  to  bubble  over. 
They  had  thrown  off  the  masks  of  meekness  that  so 
ill  fitted  them.  Fitzgibbon  was  truculence  per 
sonified.  The  expression  in  Swope's  face  when  he 
looked  at  Newman  was  so  terrible  it  might  almost 
of  itself  make  a  lad  stop  breathing — an  expression 
of  gloating,  pitiless,  triumphant  cruelty. 

Lynch,  in  charge  of  the  deck,  stood  apart  from 
the  others,  but  he  too  was  looking  aft,  not  at  me, 
but  at  Newman.  There  was  something  in  his  bear 
ing  also  which  declared  plainly  that  some  ugly  thing 
was  about  to  happen. 

Yet  Newman  was  permitted  to  pass  the  com 
panion  hatch  without  interference.  In  fact,  the  pair 
turned  their  backs  to  him.  I  had,  for  an  instant,  the 
wild  hope  that  Newman  was  mistaken  in  his  fears. 
But  only  for  an  instant.  Because,  when  Newman 
neared  the  forward  end  of  the  poop,  the  two  trades 
men  of  the  port  watch  suddenly  popped  up  from 
the  ladder  and  confronted  him.  Sails  carried  a 
sawed-off  shotgun  in  the  crook  of  his  arm,  and  Chips 
had  a  pair  of  handcuffs  dangling  in  his  grasp. 

Newman  stopped  short     Who  would  not,  with 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  213 

the  muzzle  of  a  shotgun  carelessly  pointed  at  his 
breast?  No  order  to  halt  was  needed. 

Suddenly  I  saw  through  the  skipper's  game.  Aye, 
and  the  devilish  craft  of  it  horrified  me,  and  wrung 
a  cry  of  warning  from  my  throat.  For  when  New 
man  halted,  Swope  and  Fitzgibbon  turned  towards 
him,  and,  while  Swope  continued  to  lounge  against 
the  hatch,  the  mate  closed  in  behind  Newman,  and 
I  saw  a  revolver  in  his  hand.  At  the  same  time,  the 
man  with  the  shotgun  said  something  to  Newman, 
something  that  angered  the  big  fellow,  I  could 
tell  from  the  way  his  shoulders  humped  and  his 
body  tensed.  Squarely  behind  him  stood  the 
mate. 

Oh,  it  was  a  clever  murder  Yankee  Swope  had 
planned,  a  safe  murder !  If  Newman  made  any  mo 
tion  that  could  be  interpreted  as  resisting  arrest,  and 
was  shot  in  the  back  and  killed — why,  the  officer  who 
shot  him  was  performing  his  duty,  and  an  unruly 
sailor  had  received  his  deserts!  That  is  the  way 
the  log  would  put  it,  and  that  is  the  way  folks 
ashore  would  look  at  it. 

The  second  mate  saw  through  the  scheme,  also. 
I  am  sure  he  had  no  previous  knowledge  of  it,  for 
an  expression  of  surprise  and  consternation  showed 
in  his  face,  and  he  threw  up  his  arm  in  a  warning 
gesture.  But  it  was  I  who  warned  Newman.  I 
sang  out  lustily, 

"Look  out — behind  you!" 

Newman  looked  behind  him.     He  threw  back  his 


214.  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

head  and  laughed.  It  amused  him  to  see  the  mate 
standing  there  so  sheepishly,  with  his  pistol  in  his 
hand.  But  I  did  not  laugh,  for  Yankee  Swope  was 
staring  at  me,  and  there  was  fury  in  his  face.  God's 
truth,  my  hair  stood  up,  and  my  toes  crawled  in 
their  boots !  Oh,  I  knew  I  had  let  myself  in  for  it 
with  that  warning  shout. 

But  if  Newman  laughed,  he  did  not  venture  to 
move.  He,  too,  saw  through  the  skipper's  plan,  and 
by  his  action  promptly  defeated  it.  He  laughed, 
but  he  also  elevated  his  hands  above  his  head  to 
show  his  unarmed  condition  and  his  pacific  intent. 
Then,  ignoring  the  mate,  he  spoke  to  Captain 
Swope. 

"Am  I  to  consider  myself  under  arrest,  Cap 
tain?" 

Swope  turned  his  face  to  the  speaker,  and  glad 
I  was  to  be  free  of  his  gaze.  He  was  a  furious  man 
that  moment;  I  could  see  him  biting  his  lips,  and 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  hands  from  excess  of 
anger.  Yet  he  answered  Newman  in  a  soft,  even 
voice,  and  in  the  same  half-bantering  vein  the  big 
fellow  had  used.  He  was  a  strong  man,  was  Swope; 
he  could  control  his  temper  when  he  thought  it 
necessary. 

"Yes,  my  man,  you  may  consider  yourself  under 
arrest!"  he  said. 

"Then  you  will  notice  I  offer  no  resistance," 
added  Newman.  "I  am  unarmed,  and  eager  to  obey 
all  legal  commands  of  my  captain.  Shall  I  lower 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  215 

my  arms,  and  permit  this  gentleman  to  fasten  the 
irons  upon  my  wrists?" 

"No  less  eager  to  break  into  limbo,  than  to  break 
out  of  it — eh?"  commented  the  captain.  "Yes,  I 
grant  you  permission  to  be  handcuffed — but  not  that 
way ! — turn  around,  and  place  your  hands  together 
behind  your  back." 

Newman  promptly  complied  with  the  directions, 
and  the  carpenter  stepped  forward  and  slipped  on 
the  cuffs. 

"Lock  those  irons  tightly,  Connolly,"  Swope  di 
rected  the  tradesman.  "We  have  to  deal  with  a 
desperate  man,  a  tricky  man,  a  damned  jail-bird, 
Connolly.  Squeeze  those  irons  down  upon  his 
wrists.  It  doesn't  matter  if  they  pinch  him." 

From  where  I  stood  I  could  not  see,  but  I  could 
imagine  the  steel  rings  biting  cruelly  into  my  friend's 
flesh.  I  felt  a  rage  against  the  captain  which  over 
came  the  sick  fear  of  what  he  might  do  to  me.  But 
my  rage  was  impotent;  it  could  not  help  Newman. 

Mister  Lynch  tried  to  help  him;  and  by  his  ac 
tion  indicated  plainly  what  was  his  position  in  the 
matter  of  the  arrest.  He  crossed  the  deck,  and 
examined  the  prisoner's  wrists. 

"These  irons  are  too  tight,  and  will  torture  the 
man,"  he  said  to  the  captain.  "In  my  judgment, 
sir,  it  is  not  necessary  to  secure  him  in  this  fashion." 

"In  my  judgment  it  is,"  was  Swope's  bland  re 
sponse.  Then  he  added,  "And  now,  Mister  Fitz- 
gibbon,  and  you,  Mister  Lynch — if  you  will  escort 


216  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

this  mutinous  scoundrel  below  to  the  cabin,  I'll  see 
that  this  affair  is  properly  entered  in  the  logbook, 
and  then  we  will  put  him  in  a  place  where  he  cannot 
work  further  mischief.  Connolly,  you  and  your 
mate  may  go  for'ard." 

A  moment  later  I  was  alone  on  the  poop.  So 
quickly  and  quietly  had  the  affair  been  managed  that 
none  of  the  watch  on  deck  seemed  to  be  aware  of  it. 
They  were  busied  about  the  fore  part  of  the  ship  at 
the  various  jobs  Lynch  had  set  them  to.  But  the 
tradesmen  of  the  watch  were  not  in  sight,  and  I  had 
no  doubt  they  were  forewarned,  and  had  joined  the 
port  watch  tradesmen  before  the  cabin,  to  guard 
against  any  possible  trouble. 

I  wondered  what  to  do.  Do  something,  I  felt  I 
must.  If  I  sang  out  and  informed  the  watch,  the 
afterguard  would  reach  me  and  squelch  my  voice 
long  before  my  mates  could  lay  aft.  And  indeed, 
laying  aft  in  a  body  was  what  the  crew  must  not 
do.  That  would  be  trouble,  mutiny  perhaps,  and 
Newman's  injunction  was  to  keep  the  peace. 

I  could  do  nothing  to  help  my  friend.  But  I  felt 
I  must  do  something.  The  cabin  skylights  were 
open,  for  it  was  tropic  weather,  and  a  murmur  of 
voices  ascended  through  the  opening.  I  could  not 
distinguish  words,  but  I  felt  I  must  know  what  they 
were  saying  to  Newman,  or  about  him.  So  I  took  a 
chance.  I  slipped  the  wheel  into  the  becket,  and 
crept  to  the  edge  of  the  skylights. 

I  could  peek  into  only  a  narrow  section  of  the 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  217 

saloon,  for  I  did  not  dare  shove  my  face  into  the 
opening.  They  would  have  seen  me.  But  I  could 
hear  every  voice,  every  word,  and  my  ears  gave 
me  an  accurate  picture  of  the  scene  below. 

The  first  voice  I  heard  was  the  voice  of  one  of 
my  foc'sle  mates,  and  he  was  giving  testimony 
against  Newman. 

"  'E  was  in  the  syl-locker  mykin'  hup  to  *er,"  the 
speaker  said,  "an'  tellin'  as  'ow  Vd  lead  the  crew 
arft,  and  kill  the  hofficers,  and  tyke  charge  'imself. 
That's  wot  'e  says,  s'  'elp  me!" 

"Ah,  yes,  he  was  making  up  to  her,  eh?  And 
plotting  mutiny?  And  my  wife  lent  herself  to  such 
a  scheme,  did  she?"  This  came  in  Swope's  voice, 
soft,  purring,  the  very  tone  an  insult.  "So  my  wife 
was  in  the  sail-locker  with  this  convict,  and  he  was 
making  up  to  her?  Well,  well!" 

"You  know  that  creature  is  lying,  Angus!"  broke 
in  another  voice.  Aye,  and  I  very  nearly  gave  my 
self  away  by  craning  my  head  to  see  the  speaker. 
For  this  was  the  lady's  voice,  hot  with  anger  and 
resentment  and  loathing.  "You  know  very  well  why 
I  met  Roy  in  the  sail-locker;  you  know  very  well  we 
were  planning  to  avoid  bloodshed,  not  cause  it." 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  exclaimed  the  cap 
tain,  with  a  savage  edge  to  his  words.  "This  is  a 
man's  business,  madam!  Return  to  your  room  at 
once.  Mister  Fitzgibbon,  take  her  to  her  room!'* 

There  was  the  sound  of  movement  below.  A 
chair  scraped.  Then  Lynch's  voice  rang  out  sharply, 


218  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

''Stop  that,  Fitz!"  The  lady's  voice  said,  "You 
need  not  touch  me,  I  am  going."  A  second  later  she 
spoke  again,  from  a  different  point,  and  I  judged  her 
to  be  in  the  doorway  of  her  stateroom.  "You,  at 
least,  Mister  Lynch,  will  bear  witness  that  I  deny 
these  charges  against  myself  and  against — against 
him.  They  are  lies.  This  spy  is  lying,  my  husband 
is  lying.  I  know  the  truth.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Angus?  I  know  the  truth,  and  you  cannot  silence 
me  with  lies!"  A  door  closed. 

"Now  we  will  continue  our  examination,"  said 
Captain  Swope. 

Just  then  I  heard  a  faint  slatting  of  canvas  aloft. 
I  sped  for  the  wheel,  and  when,  an  instant  later,  the 
tradesman,  Morton,  poked  his  head  above  the  level 
of  the  poop,  and  looked  aft,  I  had  the  ship  steady 
again.  Morton's  head  disappeared,  and  after  wait 
ing  a  few  moments  to  make  sure  he  did  not  intend 
coming  up  on  the  poop,  I  returned  to  the  skylight. 

My  precious  shipmate  was  talking  again.  "Hi 
'card  'im  sy  in  the  Knitting  Swede's  'ow  'e  was 
shipping  in  this  ship  just  to  ryse  'ell." 

"He  said  that,  did  he?"  commented  Captain 
Swope.  "Now  what  have  you  to  say  to  that,  New 
man?" 

For  the  first  time  I  heard  my  friend's  voice.  His 
words  were  cool,  contemptuous.  Aye,  they  heart 
ened  me;  they  told  me  he  was  far  from  being  de 
feated. 

"The  rat  lies,  of  course,  as  all  of  you  know." 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  219 

"And  you  say  that  Newman  has  persistently  en 
deavored  to  stir  up  the  crew  to  acts  of  disobedience 
and  violence?"  continued  the  captain. 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  "  'E  would  sy  as  'ow 
there  was  a  lot  o'  money  in  the  lazaret,  and  if  we 
would  follow  'im  arft  'e  would  .give  hit  to  us." 

"Now  I  know  that  is  a  lie,"  broke  in  Lynch.  The 
second  mate's  voice  was  also  contemptuous,  but  not 
cool;  I  could  tell  he  was  excited  and  angry.  "I've 
watched  this  crowd,  Captain;  I  know  them  like  I 
know  the  back  of  my  hand.  This  man,  Newman,  is 
the  best  sailor  for'ard,  and  the  strongest  influence 
for  peace.  He,  and  the  little  Holy  Joe  the  crimp 
gave  us,  prevented  a  riot  the  night  the  boy  died.  I 
know  this  fellow  is  lying,  Captain!" 

"That  will  do,  Mister  Lynch,"  exclaimed  Swope. 
"I  did  not  ask  your  opinion  in  this  matter.  I  would 
suggest,  sir,  that  it  is  your  watch  on  deck,  and  the 
ship  may  need  your  attention." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  retorted  Lynch.  "But  I  wish  to 
tell  you  this,  Captain — I  know  this  man  is  innocent 
of  these  charges,  and  I  will  not  be  a  party  to  your 
action  against  him." 

"Have  a  care,  sir;  I  am  captain  of  this  vessel," 
cried  Swope. 

"I  recognize  your  authority,  but  that  does  not 
alter  my  stand  in  this  case,"  said  Lynch. 

"That  will  do,  sir;  go  on  deck!"  was  the  cap 
tain's  command. 

I  was  at  the  wheel,  and  the  ship  was  on  her  course, 


220  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

when  the  second  mate  appeared.  Oh,  but  he  was 
in  a  towering  rage !  He  stamped  the  deck  like  a  full 
watch.  He  sang  out  to  me,  "Damn  your  eye,  man, 
watch  your  wheel;  the  wake  is  like  a  snake's  track!" 
I  answered  meekly,  uYes,  sir,"  and  held  her  nose 
true.  He  looked  at  me  sharply,  and  I  knew  that 
he  guessed  what  I  had  been  up  to.  But  he  said  noth 
ing  more;  instead,  he  stormed  for'ard,  and  worked 
out  his  rage  among  the  stiffs. 

I  overheard  no  more  of  the  proceedings  in  the 
cabin,  for  I  did  not  dare  leave  the  wheel  while 
Mister  Lynch  was  on  deck.  But  I  was  easier  in  my 
mind  concerning  Newman's  fate,  for  what  I  had 
overheard  convinced  me  the  big  fellow  stood  in  no 
immediate  danger  of  his  life.  That  Swope  meant  to 
kill,  I  had  not  the  least  doubt — Newman,  himself, 
said  as  much — but  the  time  was  not  ripe  for  that 
act 

So  I  occupied  myself  with  thoughts  about  the 
traitor  in  the  crew.  At  that  moment  Captain  Swope 
was  not  the  only  man  on  board  with  murder  in  his 
heart!  My  fingers  pressed  the  spokes  as  though 
they  had  hold  of  the  Cockney's  throat. 

I  cursed  myself  for  a  stupid  fool  not  to  have 
known  Cockney  was  the  spy.  I  should  have  known. 
He  was  that  sort,  a  bully  and  a  boot-licker  by  turns. 
In  the  foc'sle  he  was  more  violent  than  any  other  in 
his  denunciation  of  the  buckos;  on  deck  he  cringed 
before  them.  He  had  always  fawned  upon  New 
man,  but  I  suspected  he  hated  my  friend,  because  of 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  221 

what  happened  in  the  Knitting  Swede's.  But  I  had 
not  suspected  him  of  treachery  to  his  foc'sle  mates, 
because  he  was  an  old  sailor  and  a  good  one,  and 
there  were  plenty  of  stiffs  on  board  more  fitted,  I 
thought,  for  spy's  work.  But  Cockney  was  the  man. 
I  could  not  mistake  his  voice  for  another's.  He  was 
even  now  down  below  bearing  false  witness  against 
my  friend. 

I  watched  the  deck  closely,  and  pretty  soon  I  saw 
Cockney  go  forward.  So  I  knew  that  the  farcical 
examination  of  Newman  was  ended,  and  that  he  was 
probably  locked  up  with  the  rats  in  the  lazaret.  I 
promised  myself  I  would  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk 
with  Cockney  just  as  soon  as  eight  bells  released  me 
from  the  wheel. 

But  when  eight  bells  did  go,  I  had  something  else 
to  think  about.  Indeed,  yes !  My  own  skin,  no  less. 

All  hands  were  mustered  aft  when  the  port  watch 
came  on  deck.  This  was  unusual,  a  break  in  routine, 
for  it  was  not  customary  to  call  the  crew  aft  at  the 
close  of  the  day  watches.  Moreover,  the  men  were 
herded  aft  by  the  tradesmen,  who  were  armed. 
Mister  Lynch  came  up  on  the  poop,  and  was  ob 
viously  taking  no  part  in  the  proceedings.  Oh,  it 
was  the  end  of  the  easy  times,  and  all  hands  knew  it. 

When  the  men  were  collected  by  the  main  mast, 
the  little  parson  was  plucked  out  of  the  crowd  and 
ushered  into  the  cabin,  where  the  skipper  and  the 
mate  awaited  him.  Aye,  that  was  the  reason  for 
the  muster;  Holy  Joe  must  be  punished  for  his  de- 


222  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

fiance  of  Fitzgibbon.  Five  minutes  after  he  entered 
the  cabin,  he  was  thrown  out  upon  the  deck,  bruised, 
bleeding  and  unconscious,  and  his  mates  were  told  to 
pick  him  up  and  carry  him  forward. 

The  Old  Man  and  the  mate  appeared  on  the  poop 
immediately  afterwards.  The  instant  I  clapped  eyes 
upon  Swope,  I  knew  that  my  turn  was  next.  I  saw 
it  in  his  eyes,  in  his  face  and  carriage.  He  looked 
and  behaved  just  as  he  had  that  day  he  attacked 
Nils.  He  looked  at  me  with  a  bright,  cruel  glare; 
he  smiled,  and  licked  his  lips  with  his  tongue.  Oh, 
I  was  frightened;  worse,  I  felt  sick  and  weak.  And 
I  felt  anger,  too;  aye,  there  was  rising  in  me  a  wild 
and  murderous  rage,  which,  if  I  let  it  go,  would,  I 
knew,  master  both  fear  and  caution.  I  kept  repeat 
ing  to  myself  during  the  few  minutes  of  grace  al 
lowed  me,  "I  must  not  lose  my  temper,  I  must  not 
lose  my  temper."  For  if  I  did  lose  my  temper,  and 
defy  my  masters  with  fist  and  tongue,  I  knew  I 
should  be  beaten  until  I  was  physically  disabled,  per 
haps  fatally  disabled.  And  then  who  would  hold 
the  crew  in  check,  who  would  labor  to  save  New 
man? 

The  Cockney  came  aft  to  relieve  the  wheel.  There 
was  a  smirk  on  his  face,  and  a  swagger  in  his  walk, 
as  he  came  along  the  lee  side  of  the  poop.  I  no 
ticed  him  leer  confidentially  at  the  mate,  as  he  passed 
that  worthy.  That  Cockney  thought  himself  a  very 
clever  fellow,  no  doubt,  having  been  taken  into  the 
confidence  of  the  ship's  masters,  having  been  as- 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  223 

signed  to  do  their  secret  dirty  work.  It  was  all  I 
could  do  to  keep  from  flying  at  his  throat,  when  he 
came  within  reach  of  my  arms. 

He  murmured  some  hypocritical  words  as  he 
stepped  into  my  place.  He  was  a  good  dissembler. 

"My  heye,  but  poor  'Oly  Joe  caught  it,"  says  he. 
"They  bloomin'  near  skinned  'im  alive.  They  'arve 
Newman  in  the  lazaret.  Blimme,  Shreve,  we  got  to 
do  somethink  abaht  it!" 

The  answer  he  got  was  a  grunt.  My  mind  and 
eyes  were  on  the  officers.  I  started  forward,  saying 
to  myself,  "I  must  not  lose  my  temper." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"1^ TOT  so  fast,  my  lad.     I  think  I  should  like 

.  ^w     to  look  you  over." 

These  were  the  words  with  which  Cap 
tain  Swope  arrested  my  progress.  He  had  permitted 
me  to  almost  reach  the  ladder  leading  to  the  main 
deck,  before  he  hailed.  The  cat  and  the  mouse; 
aye,  that  was  it !  He  must  play  with  his  prey.  Such 
teasing  gave  him  pleasure. 

I  stopped,  of  course,  and  turned,  and  faced  him. 
Never  did  Captain  Swope  remind  me  more  of  a  cat 
than  that  instant,  when  I  met  his  glittering,  pitiless 
eyes,  and  saw  his  smiling,  red-lipped  mouth,  and  lis 
tened  to  his  soft,  purring  voice.  I  was  his  mouse, 
helpless,  trapped.  God's  truth,  I  felt  like  one ! 

He  looked  me  over  slowly,  from  head  to  foot. 
The  mate  walked  around  behind  me,  and  I  knew 
the  attack  would  come  from  that  direction.  Swope 
knew  that  I  knew  it;  that  is  why  he  held  my  eyes  to 
the  front  with  his  deliberate  and  insulting  inspec 
tion.  The  cat  and  the  mouse — he  would  enjoy  my 
nervousness. 

I  think  I  disappointed  him,  for  I  tried  hard  to 
appear  unconcerned.  So,  finally,  he  spoke  again. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Jack  S-hreve,  sir,"  I  answered. 
224 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  225 

"Shreve?  Now,  what  signboard  did  you  rob? 
Shreve  is  a  good  name,  too  good  for  a  foc'sle  rat. 
Did  you  come  by  it  honestly  ?  Did  you  have  a  father 
by  that  name?  I  dare  say  not.  A  gutter  product 
would  not  know  his  father,  eh,  my  lad?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  deliberate  intent  of 
the  insult,  or  its  foul  meaning.  Despite  my  efforts, 
I  felt  the  blood  in  my  cheeks,  and  my  fingers  clenched 
of  their  own  accord.  I  thought  how  white  was 
Yankee  Swope's  neck,  and  how  near,  and  how  easily 
I  could  reach  out  and  choke  the  vile  words  in  his 
throat.  I  very  nearly  lost  my  temper — and  with  it, 
my  life,  and,  I  think,  the  other  two  lives,  which  I 
actually  valued  above  my  own. 

The  thing  which  saved  me  was  the  glimpse  of  a 
cold,  speculative  gleam  in  my  tormentor's  eyes.  It 
was  the  mere  shadow  of  an  expression,  but  it  acted 
like  cold  water  upon  my  hot  thoughts.  I  divined, 
suddenly,  that  something  more  than  sport  was  be 
hind  the  captain's  insults.  He  wanted  me  to  blow 
up  in  a  great  rage,  and  attack  him,  or  the  mate.  I 
suddenly  knew  this  was  so,  and  the  danger  of  my 
losing  my  temper  was  past. 

I  lowered  my  eyes,  afraid  their  expression  would 
betray  my  knowledge,  and  said  submissively,  "Yes, 
sir,  I  guess  so,  sir." 

"I  was  told  you  had  a  long  tongue,  but  you  do 
not  seem  very  glib  this  minute,"  Captain  Swope  went 
on.  "You've  taken  a  reef  in  it,  eh,  Shreve?" 

I  said,  uYes,  sir." 


226  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"But  you  forgot  to  take  a  reef  in  it  awhile  back, 
didn't  you?" 

I  knew  he  was  referring  to  the  shout  that  warned 
Newman.  I  did  not  venture  a  reply. 

"So  now  you  have  put  your  tongue  in  gaskets,"  he 
commented,  after  a  pause.  "Too  bad  you  didn't  do 
it  before.  A  long  tongue  is  a  very  bad  habit,  my 
lad,  and  I  do  not  allow  my  hands  to  have  bad  habits. 
I  correct  them — sol" 

He  struck  me  then,  not  a  heavy,  stunning  blow, 
but  a  short-armed,  slashing  uppercut,  which  ripped 
the  flesh  of  my  cheek,  and  sent  me  stumbling  back 
wards  against  the  mate's  body.  I  took  that  blow 
meekly,  I  took  Fitzgibbon's  harder  blow  meekly.  I 
stood  there  and  let  the  two  of  them  pummel  me, 
and  knock  me  down  and  kick  me,  and  I  made  no 
show  of  resistance.  I  buried  my  head  in  my  arms, 
and  drew  up  my  knees,  and  let  them  work  their  will 
on  me. 

Oh,  it  was  a  cruel  dressing  down  they  gave  me ! 
My  face  became  raw  meat,  my  body  a  mass  of  shoot 
ing  pains.  I  took  it  meekly.  I  tried  to  guard  my 
vitals,  and  my  addled,  star-riddled  wits  clung  to  the 
one  idea — "I  must  not  lose  my  temper!" 

I  took  my  medicine.  I  did  not  lift  a  hand  against 
them.  I  grovelled  on  the  deck  like  a  cur,  and  did 
not  fight  back. 

It  was  hard  to  behave  like  that.  It  was  the  hard 
est  thing  I  had  ever  done — keeping  my  temper,  and 
taking  that  beating  without  show  of  resistance.  I 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  227 

was  a  fighting  animal;  never  before  in  my  life  had  I 
tamely  turned  the  other  cheek.  Long  afterwards 
I  came  to  realize  that  those  few  moments,  during 
which  I  lay  on  the  deck  and  felt  their  boots  thud 
into  my  flesh,  were  educative  moments  of  vital  im 
portance  in  my  growth  into  manhood.  I  was  learn 
ing  self-control ;  it  was  being  literally  kicked  into  me. 
It  was  a  lesson  I  needed,  no  doubt — but,  oh,  it  was 
a  bitter,  bitter  lesson. 

They  gave  over  their  efforts,  finally.  I  had  not 
much  wit  left  in  me,  but  I  heard  the  captain's  voice, 
faintly,  as  though  he  were  at  a  distance,  instead  of 
bending  over  me. 

"There's  no  fight  Ln  this  rat,"  he  said.  "Might  as 
well  boot  him  off  the  poop,  Mister,  and  let  him 
crawl  into  his  hole.  He's  not  dangerous,  and  the 
ship  needs  him  as  beef." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  I  had  obligingly  saved 
them  the  trouble  of  booting  me  very  far,  for  I  had 
been  inching  myself  forward  ever  since  the  on 
slaught.  When  the  captain  spoke,  I  was  almost  at 
the  head  of  the  ladder  to  the  main  deck — an  instant 
after  he  spoke,  I  was  lying  on  the  main  deck  at  the 
foot  of  the  poop  ladder,  and  all  the  stars  in  the 
universe  were  dancing  before  my  eyes. 

I  got  dizzily  to  my  hands  and  knees,  and  then  to 
my  feet,  and  staggered  forward.  Captain  Swope's 
soft  voice  followed  me. 

"Next  time  reef  your  tongue  before  you  open  your 
mouth!"  he  called. 


228  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

I  made  my  way  into  the  foc'sle,  and  my  watch- 
mates  grabbed  me,  and  swabbed  and  kneaded  my 
hurts,  and  swore  their  sympathy.  My  injuries  were 
not  very  severe — some  nasty  gashes  about  the  head 
and  face,  and  innumerable  bruises  upon  the  body. 
Fortunately  I  was  in  no  way  disabled.  My  bones 
were  intact.  I  was  in  far  better  case,  they  told  me, 
than  poor  Holy  Joe.  He  was  lying  in  his  bunk  un 
conscious,  that  very  moment;  he  had  a  broken  arm, 
and  most  of  his  teeth  were  gone. 

I  saw  at  once  that  the  men  were  quite  wild  with 
rage  and  anxiety.  From  the  sounds  that  came  in  the 
foc'sle  door,  I  knew  that  the  mate  was  hazing  his 
men.  Aye,  he  was  going  after  them  in  the  good  old 
way,  quite  as  if  there  had  been  no  peaceful  interlude. 
I  did  not  have  to  see  the  mates'  men  to  know  their 
temper;  I  could  tell  from  the  temper  of  my  own 
watch  how  the  other  watch  felt. 

It  was  a  terrific  shock  to  most  of  them,  that  sudden 
return  of  brutality.  Aye,  just  in  that  I  saw  the  devil 
ish  cunning  of  Captain  Swope.  He  knew  what  the 
effect  would  be  upon  the  minds  of  the  men  of  slacken 
ing  his  hell-ship  discipline,  and  then,  when  the  habit 
of  passive  endurance  was  weakened,  suddenly  tight 
ening  the  reins.  He  knew  that  then  the  bit  would 
be  well  nigh  unendurable.  Oh,  Swope  had  calculated 
shrewdly;  he  foresaw  the  effect  not  only  of  an  out 
burst  of  promiscuous  brutality,  but  of  the  arrest  of 
Newman,  and  the  beating  up  of  Holy  Joe. 

I  could  see  the  effect  at  a  glance.     The  stiffs  were 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  229 

panicky.  These  valorous  stiffs  were  glowering, 
really  dangerous  at  last.  The  squareheads  were 
hysterical  with  rage.  The  squareheads  knew  why 
Holy  Joe  had  suffered — because  of  them,  because  of 
Nils.  Because  of  Newman,  too,  but  they  did  not 
guess  that.  Then,  the  knowledge  that  Newman  was 
trapped  was  a  heavy  blow  to  sailors  and  stiffs  alike. 
They  had  all,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  depended 
upon  Newman's  sane  strength.  With  him  taken 
from  them  they  felt — every  man-jack — that  their 
backs  were  to  the  wall. 

Just  as  soon  as  the  blood  was  washed  out  of  my 
eyes,  and  I  could  see  my  mates'  faces,  just  as  quickly 
as  the  ringing  in  my  ears  subsided,  and  I  could  hear 
their  voices,  I  knew  that  the  moment  was  past  when 
the  peace  could  be  kept  in  that  foc'sle.  Perhaps 
Newman  could  have  composed  the  crowd,  but  I 
doubt  it.  The  captain  had  succeeded  in  driving  them 
too  far  and  too  hard,  in  frightening  them  too  much. 
He  had  won,  I  thought  despairingly;  he  would  get 
his  mutiny. 

For  it  was  now  the  elemental  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  that  swayed  the  men  and  determined 
their  actions.  Oh,  there  was  plenty  of  sympathy 
for  me,  and  for  Holy  Joe  and  Newman;  there  was 
rage  on  our  account;  but  underlying  the  sympathy 
and  rage  was  a  very  terrible  fear.  It  was  a  fear  of 
death,  a  fear  that  each  man  felt  for  himself.  Self- 
preservation,  that's  it! 

My  shipmates,  sailors  and  stiffs,  had  reached  a 


230  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

point  where  they  were  afraid  not  to  take  some 
violent  and  illegal  action  against  the  men  in  com 
mand  of  the  ship.  Their  long  misuse,  the  wrongs 
and  indignities  each  man  had  suffered,  the  fate  of 
Nils,  the  events  of  the  afternoon,  had  all  culminated 
in  the  belief  these  men  now  had — good  men  and  bad 
men  both,  remember! — that  they  must  revolt,  that 
they  must  kill  the  men  aft  before  the  men  aft  killed 
them !  There  were  other  factors  at  work,  of  course, 
greed  for  gold  and  lust  of  revenge,  but  this  simple, 
primal  fear  for  their  own  skins  was  the  determining 
factor  in  the  situation. 

"By  God,  I  never  go  on  deck  but  I'm  scared  o' 
my  life!"  swore  one  of  the  stiffs,  named  Green. 
And  he  voiced  the  common  feeling. 

I  was,  of  course,  much  concerned  for  the  parson. 
I  went  into  the  port  foc'sle  to  look  at  him — and  he 
looked  bad,  lying  there  unconscious.  The  square 
heads  had  washed  his  face,  but  had  not  ventured  to 
touch  his  arm.  His  face  was  in  a  shocking  state, 
and  I  feared  his  body  might  be  broken,  as  was  Nils' 
body.  He  was  much  worse  off  than  I ;  for  he  had  not 
my  iron  muscles,  to  withstand  hard  knocks,  nor  my 
skill  in  rough-and-tumble  fighting,  which  had  enabled 
me  to  protect  the  vital  parts  of  my  body. 

"We'll  have  to  get  him  aft,  where  the  lady  can 
attend  to  him — or  else  get  her  for'ard,"  I  declared. 

"No  chance,"  answered  Boston. 

"If  we  take  him  aft  dey  ban  kill  him,"  asserted 
one  of  the  squareheads. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  231 

"She  can't  come  for'ard;  she's  locked  in  her 
room,"  said  another. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  I  cried. 

"Cockney  says  so.  He  was  there  when  the  skipper 
locked  her  in,"  said  Boston. 

For  an  instant  I  forgot  Holy  Joe,  and  his  evil 
plight. 

"What  yarn  did  that  Cockney  bring  for'ard  with 
him?"  I  demanded. 

"Why,  he  was  there  when  they  got  the  Big  'Un," 
answered  Blackie.  "He  was  helpin'  the  steward 
break  out  a  cask  o'  beef  from  the  lazaret,  when  they 
brought  Big  'Un  into  the  cabin,  cuffed  up,  and  with 
the  drop  on  him.  He  says  the  hen  squawked,  and 
the  Old  Man  shut  her  in  her  room.  Then  they 
kicked  him  out  on  deck,  so  he  wouldn't  see  too  much 
o'  what  was  goin'  on.  He  says  they  put  the  Big 
'Un  down  in  the  lazaret,  and  they're  goin'  to  croak 
him  sure,  and  if  we  got  any  guts  we'll  go  aft  to 
night  and  turn  him  loose.  That's  what  Cockney 
says." 

Well,  I  let  myself  go,  verbally.  I  said  things 
about  that  Cockney,  and  I  was  only  sorry  Cockney 
was  not  there  to  hear  them.  I  knew  most  of  the 
hard  words  of  three  languages,  and  I  used  them  all. 
Oh,  it  was  a  relief  to  give  even  verbal  release  to  the 
ocean  of  hate  and  rage  in  my  soul  I  I  told  the  crowd 
what  I  thought  of  Cockney.  Then  I  told  them  why. 
I  told  them  what  had  really  happened  in  the  cabin, 
what  Cockney  really  was. 


232  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

They  believed  me.  They  knew  me ;  they  knew  I 
would  not  lie  in  such  a  case,  they  could  not  help 
but  sense  the  sincerity  of  my  loathing.  They  knew 
Cockney,  also.  They  knew  he  was  the  sort  to  spy 
and  perjure — a  good  many  of  them  were  that  sort 
themselves! — and  as  soon  as  I  paused  for  breath, 
this  man  and  that  began  to  recall  certain  suspicious 
acts  of  Cockney  he  had  noticed.  Aye,  they  believed 
me,  and  the  curses  heaped  on  Cockney's  head  were 
awful  to  the  ear. 

They  had  good  reason  to  curse.  My  disclosure 
gave  them  a  fresh  fear.  Consternation  was  in  their 
faces  and  voices,  especially  in  the  faces  and  voices 
of  the  stiffs.  I  knew  very  well  what  frightened  them. 
Cockney  had  been  most  violent  and  outspoken 
among  those  advocating  mutiny,  far  more  outspoken 
than  the  cautious  Blackie  or  Boston,  and  the  dis 
affected  had  naturally  confided  in  him.  I  knew  that 
every  man  in  the  crew  who  had  expressed  a  willing 
ness  to  revolt  was  known  by  name  to  Cockney  (and 
without  doubt  to  Yankee  Swope)  and  these  men 
now  could  not  escape  the  feeling  that  they  were 
marked  men.  If  anything  had  been  needed  to  settle 
the  conviction  of  the  foc'sle  that  mutiny  was  neces 
sary,  this  unmasking  of  Cockney  supplied  the  need. 

I  felt  this,  rather  than  thought  it  out.  It  was  in 
the  air,  so  to  speak.  At  the  moment,  I  was  too 
much  concerned  for  the  little  parson  to  reason  coolly. 
Oh,  I  reasoned  about  it  a  little  while  later,  not  coolly 
perhaps,  but  certainly  quickly,  and  leaped  helter- 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  233 

skelter  to  a  momentous  decision.  But  just  then  I 
thought  about  Holy  Joe. 

I  wanted  to  get  his  arm  set,  and  his  body  exam 
ined.  I,  myself,  was  not  competent  to  do  either. 
The  squarehead  had  spoken  truth — it  would  be  mad 
ness  to  carry  the  man  aft  for  treatment;  and  I 
judged  Cockney  had  spoken  truly,  too,  when  he  said 
the  lady  was  locked  up.  That  agreed  with  what  I, 
myself,  had  heard.  I  appealed  to  the  crowd. 

"We've  got  to  get  Holy  Joe  fixed  up.  Any  of 
you  know  anything  about  bone  setting?  Who'll 
lend  a  hand?" 

To  my  surprise,  Boston  volunteered.  "I  worked 
in  a  hospital  once,"  he  said. 

He  set  to  work  immediately  in  an  efficient,  busi 
nesslike  manner.  I  was  astonished.  His  fingers 
were  as  deft — though  not  as  gentle — as  Newman's. 
I  thought,  as  I  tore  a  blanket  into  strips,  under  his 
direction,  how  characteristic  it  was  of  the  fellow  to 
let  a  hurt  shipmate  lie  unattended  when  he  possessed 
the  skill  to  help  him.  Aye,  that  was  the  sort  of  scut 
Boston  was ! 

"A  clean  break;  no  trick  to  set  it,"  he  announced, 
after  examining  the  arm.  Nor  was  it.  We  cut  up 
a  bunkboard  for  splints,  used  the  blanket  for  band 
ages,  and  triced  the  injured  member  in  short  order. 
Boston  was  deft;  but  he  didn't  try  to  spare  his  pa 
tient  any  pain;  when  he  snapped  the  ends  of  the 
bone  together,  Holy  Joe  came  out  of  his  swoon  with 
a  cry  of  agony. 


234  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

He  half  raised  himself,  and  looked  at  us.  "Let 
there  be  no  trouble,  boys — for  God's  sake,  no  fight 
ing!"  he  said.  Then  he  fainted  away  again. 

We  undressed  him,  and  Boston  pronounced  his 
ribs  sound.  Then  we  carried  him  into  the  starboard 
foc'sle,  and  placed  him  in  my  bunk,  which  had  a 
comfortable  mattress. 

"Now  you  see  what  he  got?"  said  Boston,  wiping 
his  hands  on  his  greasy  pants.  "And  you  see  what 
you  got.  And  you  know  what  happened  to  Big  'Un. 
Well,  how  about  it,  Shreve?  Do  you  stand  with 
us?" 

"With  the  crowd,  sink- or  swim — that's  what  we 
want  to  know?"  added  Blackie. 

I  sized  them  up.  Sailors  and  stiffs,  they  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder.  There  was  no  longer  a  divi 
sion  in  that  crowd.  And  they  looked  to  me  to  lead 
them. 

I  was  thinking,  desperately  trying  to  discover  a 
course  that  would  help  Newman.  So  I  tried  to  put 
the  crowd  off. 

"You  heard  what  Holy  Joe  said?"  I  asked. 

"He's  balmy — and  besides  what  d'ye  think  a  Holy 
Joe  would  say?"  retorted  Boston.  "Now,  here's 
the  lay,  Shreve — we  got  to  put  a  stop  to  this  sort  o' 
work."  He  pointed  to  the  bunk  that  held  Holy 
Joe.  "That  means  we  got  to  take  charge  of  this 
hooker,"  he  went  on.  "All  hands  are  agreed 
to  it.  But  where  do  you  stand — with  us,  or  against 
us?" 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  235 

I  made  my  plea  for  peace,  knowing  beforehand 
it  was  useless.  "How  about  Newman?"  I  said. 
"You  know  as  well  as  I  that  the  skipper  is  out  to 
kill  him.  And  I  have  Newman's  word  for  it  that 
the  Old  Man  wants  to  kill  the  lady,  too.  He's  just 
waiting  for  an  excuse.  That's  why  he's  dressing  us 
down  this  way,  and  hazing  us  raw — so  we'll  mutiny, 
and  give  him  the  excuse  he  needs.  Can't  you  see 
that?" 

"He'll  croak  'em  anyway — and  maybe  we  can 
save  them,"  retorted  Boston. 

"No,  Lynch  won't  allow  it,"  said  I.  "He's  for 
Newman  and  the  lady.  The  Old  Man  will  not 
dare  do  it  unless  we  give  him  the  chance  by  attacking 
the  cabin,  because  Lynch  would  testify  against  him 
at  the  Inquiry.  The  Old  Man  has  logged  Newman 
as  a  mutineer,  and  our  going  aft  would  make  him 
out  one.  As  it  is,  Lynch  is  standing  up  for  him — 
and  for  us." 

But  this  was  too  much  for  the  crowd  to  swallow. 
Too  many  of  them  had  felt  the  weight  of  the  sec 
ond  mate's  fist. 

"Lynch  for  us?  By  God,  when  I  have  my  knife 
in  his  gullet — then  he'll  be  for  us!"  swore  Blackie, 
and  the  chorus  of  approval  which  followed  this 
statement  showed  what  the  rest  thought. 

"The  last  thing  Newman  said  to  me,  when  I  re 
lieved  him,"  I  went  on,  "was  a  command  to  prevent 
this  trouble.  He  said  his  life,  and  hers,  depended 
on  our  keeping  quiet." 


236  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"And  how  about  us,  how  about  our  lives?"  de 
manded  Boston.  "That  damned  murderer  aft  is  out 
to  croak  us,  too,  ain't  he — all  of  us  he  can  spare? 
Look  what  he's  done  already!  No,  by  God,  we're 
going  to  put  a  stop  to  it — and  we  want  to  know  if 
you  are  with  us?" 

I  tried  sarcasm.  "I  suppose  you'll  end  it  by 
walking  aft  and  letting  them  empty  their  shotguns 
into  you!  I  suppose  you'll  chase  them  overboard, 
guns  and  all,  with  your  cute  little  knives,  and  your 
belaying-pins !  Good  Lord,  men,  have  you  gone 
crazy?  If  I  hadn't  overheard  Cockney,  I  suppose 
he'd  have  led  you  aft,  and  got  half  of  you  filled  with 
shot.  As  it  is,  they  know  you  are  talking  mutiny, 
and  they  will  be  expecting  you.  You  can't  surprise 
them — and  what  can  you  do  against  their  guns?" 

Blackie  cursed  Cockney  in  a  way  to  curdle  the 
blood.  Then  he  made  plain  the  fear  that  was  driv 
ing  the  men. 

"They  know  we  are  talking  mutiny — yes,  and 
what's  more,  they  know  who's  talking  mutiny." 

"We  got  to  do  it  now,  guns  or  no  guns — ain't 
that  right,  mates?"  said  the  man,  Green. 

"And  the  money,  too!"  added  Blackie,  artfully. 
"Enough  of  it  aft  there  to  set  us  all  up  for  gents." 

Boston  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve.  "Me  and  Jack 
are  goin'  to  have  a  few  words  private,"  says  he  to 
the  rest.  "He's  with  us — no  fear — a  feller  like 
Jack  Shreve  stands  by  his  mates.  Come  on,  Jack." 

I  went  with  him  willingly.    I  was  anxious  to  hear 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  237 

what  he  had  to  say  "private."  I  was  even  more 
anxious  to  get  away  from  the  crowd  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  and  think  out  some  scheme  whereby  I  could 
avert  the  impending  catastrophe. 

Boston  led  me  up  on  the  foc'sle  head,  and  we  sat 
down  upon  an  anchor  stock. 

"We  ain't  such  fools  as  you  think,  Blackie  and 
me,"  he  commenced  abruptly.  "We  ain't  goin'  to 
face  guns  with  knives — not  us.  But  guns  to  guns — 
well,  that's  different  now,  ain't  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  demanded.  "Have  you 
got  a  gun?" 

In  answer,  he  lifted  my  hand  and  placed  it  over 
his  dungaree  jacket,  I  felt  something  hard,  of  ir 
regular  shape,  beneath  the  thin  cloth,  the  outline  of 
a  revolver. 

"It  ain't  the  only  one,"  he  assured  me.  "Two 
brace  we  came  on  board  with — and  we  weren't 
drunk,  you  bet.  We  hid  them  safe  before  them 
fellers  aft  went  through  the  dunnage.  And  Cockney 
didn't  find  out  about  them,  either.  They  don't  know 
aft  that  we're  heeled.  The  rest  o'  the  gang  ain't 
acquainted  with  the  fact  yet,  either.  We'll  let  them 
know  when  the  time  comes." 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  me  inquiringly.  "Well?" 
I  asked. 

"Well!"  he  echoed.  "Well,  just  this— a  gang 
that  has  guts  enough  to  face  shotguns  with  sheath- 
knives  is  a  pretty  tough  gang,  ain't  it?  And  it'll  be 
a  lot  tougher  when  it  finds  out  it  has  four  guns  of  its 


238  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

own,  and  plenty  o'  shells.  And  it  kind  of  evens  up 
the  chances,  doesn't  it?" 

I  was  thinking  fast.  All  chance  to  keep  the  peace 
was  gone,  I  realized.  Unless 

"We  ain't  goin'  to  let  them  fellers  slaughter  us; 
don't  you  worry  none  about  that,"  went  on  Boston. 
"This  ain't  the  first  gun-play  me  and  Blackie  has 
took  part  in,  you  bet!  He's  a  dead  shot,  and  I'm  a 
good  one.  We  got  it  all  planned  out,  Blackie  and 
me.  We  never  intended  going  aft  like  the  Cockney 
wanted  us  to.  We're  goin'  to  lay  low,  behind  cover, 
and  pick  'em  off — the  mates,  and  old  Swope,  too,  if 
he  shows  his  blasted  head.  Then,  where  will  them 
sailmakers  and  carpenters  be,  with  their  boss  gone? 
They'll  be  rattled,  they'll  be  up  Battle  Creek,  that's 
where  they'll  be.  We  can  rush  'em  then.  And  if 
a  few  of  our  fellers  swaller  lead — why,  there'll  be 
the  fewer  to  share  the  swag." 

"Newman — "  I  began. 

"We'll  do  the  best  we  can  for  Big  'Un,"  says  Bos 
ton.  "We  need  him.  We'll  try  and  get  the  Old 
Man  first  pop — and  if  we  have  decent  luck  plunkin' 
the  mates,  it'll  be  over  so  quick  nobody  can  hurt 
Big  'Un." 

I  thought,  and  was  silent. 

"What's  holdin'  you  back?"  demanded  Boston. 
"I  know  you  ain't  afraid.  Look  here,  Shreve,  you 
know  you  can't  hold  the  crowd  back.  You  and 
Blackie  and  me  could  all  be  against  it,  and  still 
they'd  go  aft.  They're  goin'  to  get  Swope  before 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  239 

Swope  gets  more  o'  them.  And  if  it's  Big  'Un 
you're  worryin'  about — why,  we  got  to  do  this  to 
save  him.  Look  here — let  me  give  you  a  tip,  if  the 
Big  'Un  hasn't:  When  Big  'Un  come  on  board  this 
ship  he  found  out  somethin'  from  the  skipper's  Moll 
that  he  wanted  to  find  out,  and  now,  if  he  gets  ashore 
alive  with  what  he  found  out,  there'll  be  a  sheriff's 
necktie  party  for  Yankee  Swope.  That's  what  all 
this  bloody  business  has  been  about.  You  can  lay 
your  last  cent  that  Swope  will  get  Big  'Un,  if  we 
don't  get  Swope." 

"Boston,  give  me  that  gun,"  I  said. 

He  took  a  look  at  my  face,  and  smiled,  satisfied. 
He  drew  the  weapon  from  under  his  clothes,  a  long- 
barreled,  heavy  caliber  service  Colt's,  and  passed 
it  to  me.  I  thrust  it  out  of  sight,  beneath  my  own 
waist-band. 

"Now,  I'm  boss,"  I  said.    "I'll  give  the  word." 

His  smile  widened.  This  was  what  he  wanted, 
as  I  well  knew.  Boston  and  Blackie  could  plan  and 
instigate.  But  they  could  not  lead  that  crowd.  The 
sailors  despised  them,  the  stiffs  hated  and  feared 
them  second  only  to  the  afterguard.  They  needed 
me  as  leader.  They  flattered  themselves,  I  dare  say, 
that  they  could  control  me — or  extinguish  me  when 
the  time  came. 

For  my  part,  I  had  made  my  decision.  It  was  a 
desperate,  a  terrible  decision.  It  was  necessary  that 
I  pretend  to  fall  in  with  Boston's  plans  if  I  were  to 
execute  my  decision. 


240  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

"When  it  gets  dark,  I  am  going  aft — alone/'  I 
told  him.  "You  and  Blackie  keep  the  crowd  quiet, 
and  for'ard  of  the  house,  until  I  return." 

"What  you  goin'  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"Make  sure  that  Newman  will  be  safe  when  we 
nake  the  attack,"  I  explained.  "We  must  make 
sure  of  that — he's  our  navigator." 

"That's  so,"  he  agreed.    "But  how'll  you  do  it?" 

"I'll  kill  Captain  Swope,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

I  WAS  in  earnest.  I  meant  to  do  the  murder. 
Aye,  murder  is  what  the  law  of  man  would  call 
it,  and  murder  is  the  right  term.  I  planned 
the  deed,  not  in  cold  blood  perhaps,  but  certainly 
with  coolness  and  foresight.  I  intended  to  creep  aft 
in  the  night  and  shoot  down  the  captain. 

But  you  must  understand  my  motive  before  you 
judge.  More  than  that,  you  must  bear  in  mind  my 
environment,  my  character  and  its  background,  and 
the  dilemma  which  faced  me.  I  intended  to  become 
an  assassin — but  not  for  hate,  or  greed,  or,  indeed, 
any  personal  satisfaction  or  gain. 

I  was,  remember,  a  nineteen-year-old  barbarian. 
The  impressionable,  formative  years  of  my  youth 
had  been  spent  in  deepwater  foc'sles,  among  men  who 
obeyed  but  one  law — fear.  The  watch,  the  gang, 
was  my  social  unit;  loyalty  to  a  shipmate  was  the 
one  virtue  I  thoroughly  understood  and  respected. 
And  it  was  loyalty  to  Newman  that  determined  me 
to  kill. 

Newman  was  my  friend — aye,  more  than  that,  he 
was  in  my  youthfuKeyes  a  demi-god,  a  man  to  revere 
and  worship  above  all  others.  He  was  prisoner, 
helpless.  The  crew  were  bent  on  mutiny;  I  could 
not  stop  them.  The  mutiny  was  planned  and  ex- 

241 


242  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

pected  by  the  captain ;  and  its  outbreak  would  be  the 
needed  excuse  for  the  slaying  of  Newman,  and, 
Newman  said,  of  the  lady. 

How  could  I  save  Newman?  That  was  my  prob 
lem.  How  indeed?  The  evil  choice  was  inevitably 
mine;  and  I  considered  it  the  lesser  evil.  If  I  killed 
Swope,  Newman  would  be  safe.  Perhaps  the  mutiny 
would  collapse,  would  never  come  off.  This  last  was 
something  Boston  and  Blackie,  blinded  by  their 
greed,  quite  overlooked.  But  I  knew  it  was  hate  and 
fear  of  Swope,  rather  than  greed,  that  impelled  the 
squareheads  to  revolt.  If  Swope  were  killed,  they 
might  not  go  on  with  it,  and  what  the  sailors  de 
cided,  the  stiffs  must  agree  to.  And  in  any  case, 
Newman  would  be  safe. 

I  did  not  approach  my  task  in  a  spirit  of  revulsion 
and  horror.  Indeed,  no.  Why  should  I  have  felt 
thus?  In  my  experience  I  had  not  yet  gathered  the 
idea  that  human  life  was  sacred.  Certainly,  my  ex 
perience  in  the  Golden  Bough  had  not  taught  me 
that.  I  confess,  the  job  I  planned  was  distasteful, 
extremely  so — but,  I  thought,  necessary. 

I  planned  Yankee  Swope's  murder  in  spite  of  self- 
sacrifice.  Aye,  truly  I  did!  I  dare  say  few  acts  in 
my  life  have  had  a  finer,  cleaner,  less  selfish  motive. 

I  did  not  expect  to  escape  after  firing  the  shot.  I 
expected  the  mates  or  the  tradesmen  would  kill  me. 
True,  I  thought  of  hiding  on  the  dark  deck,  and  pick 
ing  off  the  captain  when  he  appeared  on  the  poop. 
That  is  what  Boston  and  Blackie  expected  me  to  do. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  243 

But  I  dismissed  this  thought  without  serious  consid 
eration.  It  was  uncertain,  and  I  meant  to  make 
sure  of  the  brute.  Besides,  it  was,  I  felt,  cowardly, 
and  I  would  not  be  a  coward.  I  intended  to  get  into 
the  cabin  and  shoot  Swope  in  his  own  arm-chair,  so 
to  speak.  Afterwards — well,  they  could  do  what 
they  pleased  with  me.  My  friend  would  be  safe. 

So  I  lived  through  a  few  very  exalted  hours  be 
fore  the  first  night  watch  came.  Unhappy?  Not  I. 
In  moments  I  touched  the  skies  in  exaltation. 

For  I  was  the  sacrifice.  I  was  the  center  of  the 
drama.  I  was  Fate.  I  was  a  romantic-minded 
young  ass,  and  the  situation  flattered  my  generous 
conceit.  I  was  tossing  away  my  life,  you  see,  with 
a  grand  gesture,  to  help  my  friend.  I  was  dying  for 
my  friend's  sake.  My  imagination  gave  my  death 
nobility.  I  imagined  Newman  and  the  lady  remem 
bering  me  sadly  all  their  lives  long,  thinking  of  me 
always  as  their  saviour.  I  imagined  my  name  on 
sailors'  lips,  in  ships  not  yet  launched;  they  would 
talk  of  me,  of  Jack  Shreve,  the  lad  who  killed  Yankee 
Swope  so  his  shipmate  might  live. 

My  resolution  did  not  weaken;  rather,  it  grew 
firmer  with  the  passage  of  the  hours.  Of  course,  I 
did  not  take  the  crew  into  my  confidence  (there 
might  be,  I  thought,  another  Cockney  among  them), 
but  I  laid  down  the  law  to  Boston  and  Blackie,  and 
they  promised  faithfully  to  obey  my  injunctions. 
They  promised  they  would  keep  the  men  in  check  un 
til  I  had  completed  my  task.  They  promised  also  to 


244  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

mislead  the  spy,  and  see  that  no  man  laid  violent 
hands  upon  him. 

This  last  I  considered  important.  The  crowd  was 
eager  for  vengeance  upon  Cockney.  He  had  com 
mitted  the  unpardonable  sin,  he  had  betrayed  his 
mates.  Blackie  wanted  to  slit  his  throat,  and  drop 
him  over  the  side;  and  the  men  voted  an  emphatic 
aye  to  the  suggestion.  Sentence  would  have  been 
executed  as  soon  as  Cockney  came  forward  from 
the  wheel  had  I  not  interposed  my  veto  and  given 
my  reasons. 

It  was  not  solicitude  for  the  spy's  life  that  influ 
enced  me.  I,  too,  considered  he  had  forfeited  his 
right  to  life  by  his  act.  But  I  pointed  out  that  offer 
ing  immediate  violence  to  Cockney  might  alarm  the 
afterguard,  and  change  their  plan  of  action;  more 
over,  we  might  use  the  spy  to  carry  false  tales  of 
our  intentions  to  the  enemy. 

So  when  Cockney  breezed  into  the  foc'sle,  at  four 
bells,  his  reception  in  no  way  aroused  his  suspicions. 
Everything  seemed  going  his  way.  He  sympathized 
volubly  with  me,  and  would  have  awakened  Holy 
Joe  (who  had  dropped  into  a  healing  sleep,  after 
regaining  consciousness)  to  sympathize  with  him, 
had  I  permitted.  Aye,  he  was  a  good  dissembler, 
was  Cockney — but  we  matched  him.  His  mouth 
dripped  curses  on  Swope  and  his  minions,  he  ex 
horted  us  to  "  'arve  guts"  and  rush  the  poop  at  mus 
ter  time.  He  was  willing  to  risk  his  own  skin  by 
leading  the  rush.  "Wot  did  we  think  abaht  it?" 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  245 

Boston  told  him  we  thought  early  evening  a  bad 
time  for  the  adventure.  We  were  going  to  wait 
until  morning,  until  the  beginning  of  the  "gravvy- 
eye"  watch,  just  before  dawn.  That  was  the  hour 
in  which  to  strike.  Men  slept  soundest  just  before 
dawn;  those  who  were  awake  were  less  alert.  The 
mutiny  was  timed  for  four  A.  M. 

"Hi  cawn't  'ardly  wyte  that  long,  Hi'm  that 
eager  to  get  my  knife  'twixt  that  myte's  bleedin' 
ribs,"  said  Cockney. 

The  Nigger  had  come  in  during  the  discussion. 
He  seated  himself,  and  recommenced  his  favorite 
task  of  stropping  his  knife  upon  a  whetstone.  At 
the  Cockney's  last  words  he  lifted  his  head. 

"Don'  yoh  touch  de  mate,"  he  said  to  Cockney. 
"Dat  man's  mah  meat,  yes,  suh,  mah  meat!" 

Cockney  disputed  this.  He  raved,  and  swore, 
and  even  threatened  Nigger.  Aye,  he  made  a 
fine  bluster.  "  'E  wasn't  goin'  to  give  hup  'is 
chawnce  at  the  bleedin'  myte,  not  'im!  'E  'ad  a 
score  to  settle  with  that  blighter,  so  'e  'ad.  The 
Nigger  could  'arve  the  bloomin'  second  myte,  that's 


wot." 


Nigger  was  so  incensed  he  got  up  and  left  the 
foc'sle,  leaving  the  last  word  to  the  spy.  Nigger 
had  brooded  so  much  over  his  wrongs  he  was  a 
bit  cracked;  he  took  no  part  in  the  councils  of  the 
crew,  and  did  not  know,  I  am  sure,  that  Cockney 
had  been  unmasked  as  a  traitor.  Else  he  would 
never  have  acted  as  he  later  did. 


246  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

It  came  down  night.  It  was  a  good  night  for  my 
purpose,  dark  and  shadowless,  with  a  mere  sliver 
of  a  new  moon  in  the  sky.  I  had  little  difficulty  in 
gaining  entrance  to  the  cabin. 

After  the  eight  o'clock  muster,  when  my  watch  was 
sent  below,  I  slipped  around  the  corner  of  the  round 
house,  where  the  tradesmen  lived  (it  was  on  the 
maindeck,  between  the  mainmast  and  the  after- 
hatch)  and  crouched  there  in  the  darkness  while  my 
mates  trooped  forward.  This  roundhouse  (which 
was  really  square,  of  course,  like  most  roundhouses 
on  board  ship)  was  very  plentifully  supplied  with 
ports.  Designedly  so,  no  doubt,  for  it  was  the 
cabin's  outpost.  There  were  two  portholes  in  its 
forward  wall,  commanding  the  foredeck,  and  three 
portholes  in  either  of  the  side  walls.  The  door  to 
the  house  was  in  the  after  wall.  It  was  built  like 
a  fortress,  and  used  as  one. 

As  I  lay  there  on  the  deck,  pressed  against  the 
forward  wall,  I  saw  the  muzzles  of  shotguns  sticking 
out  of  the  portholes  above  my  head.  There  was  no 
light  showing  in  the  roundhouse,  but  the  tradesmen 
were  in  there  just  the  same.  Aye,  and  prepared  and 
alert.  They  were  covering  the  deck  with  guns ;  and 
I  knew  they  would  continue  to  cover  the  deck 
throughout  that  night. 

Oh,  Swope  was  canny,  as  canny  as  he  was  cruel. 
He  would  provoke  mutiny,  but  he  would  run  no 
chance  of  losing  his  ship  or  his  life.  He  was  pre 
pared.  What  could  a  few  revolvers  do  against 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  247 

these  entrenched  men?  My  shipmates'  revolt  could 
have  but  one  end — mass  murder  and  defeat ! 

So  I  thought,  as  I  lay  there  on  the  deck,  watching 
my  chance  to  slip  aft.  Swope's  plan,  Swope's 
mutiny,  I  thought.  Swope  was  the  soul  of  the  whole 
vile  business.  His  plan — and  I  was  going  to  spoil 
it !  I  was  going  to  put  a  bullet  in  his  black  heart. 

I  might  have  picked  him  off  at  that  very  moment, 
if  I  aimed  carefully.  For,  as  my  mates'  footsteps 
died  away  forward,  I  edged  around  the  corner  of 
the  roundhouse,  and  saw  the  enemy  standing  on  the 
poop.  The  three  of  them  were  there,  both  mates, 
with  the  skipper  standing  between  them.  I  picked 
him  out  of  the  group  easily,  even  in  the  darkness, 
for  he  was  of  much  slighter  build  than  either  of  his 
officers,  and  besides  I  heard  his  voice. 

"The  rats  have  discovered  some  courage — but 
they'll  lose  it  soon  enough,  when  they  face  our  recep 
tion,"  I  heard  him  say.  "But — no  nodding  to-night, 
Misters!  Keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open!" 

Fitzgibbon  mumbled  something.  The  captain 
laughed  his  soft,  tinkling  laugh. 

"I'm  going  down  to  take  a  look  at  him  now,"  he 
said,  and  the  three  of  them  moved  aft,  out  of  sight. 

Aye,  I  might  have  picked  him  off  then.  But  I 
didn't  even  entertain  the  thought.  It  was  no  part 
of  my  plan  to  slay  from  concealment.  I  was  the 
hero,  the  avenger,  the  saviour !  I  meant  to  face  him 
in  his  own  lighted  cabin. 

The  door  of  the  roundhouse  was  closed,  so  I  did 


248  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

not  fear  the  inmates  would  observe  me  entering  the 
cabin.  The  break  of  the  poop  seemed  clear  of  life. 
I  scuttled  on  my  hands  and  knees  until  I  was  past 
the  booby-hatch;  then  I  arose  to  my  feet  and  flitted 
noiselessly  to  the  cabin  door.  I  opened  it  just  wide 
enough  to  admit  my  body,  and  stepped  into  the 
lighted  cabin  alleyway. 

My  bare  feet  made  no  noise  as  I  crept  toward  the 
saloon.  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  set  foot  within 
the  sacred  precincts  of  the  quarterdeck.  From  the 
gossip  of  those  who  had  been  aft  to  sick-call,  or  to 
break  out  stores,  I  had  some  notion  of  the  lay  of  the 
land,  but  not  a  very  clear  one. 

There  were  three  doors  opening  upon  the  alley 
way;  the  one  on  the  port  side  was  the  inner  door  of 
the  sail-locker,  the  two  on  the  starboard  side  let 
into  the  mates'  rooms.  That  much  I  knew.  I  also 
knew  that  I  need  not  fear  these  doors,  since  both 
mates  were  on  deck. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  alleyway  was  the  saloon,  the 
great  common  room  of  the  cabin.  I  paused  uncer 
tainly  upon  the  threshold ;  I  didn't  know  which  way 
to  turn  for  concealment,  and  I  had  to  get  out  of  the 
alleyway  quickly,  for  any  moment  a  tradesman 
might  come  in  behind  me. 

There  were  several  doors  on  each  side  of  the 
saloon.  To  starboard,  I  knew,  lay  the  captain's 
quarters,  and,  from  the  sounds,  the  pantry.  To 
port,  I  knew,  lay  the  lady's  quarters,  and  the  stew 
ard's  room.  But  which  door  was  which,  I  did  not 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  249 

know.    I  decided  I  had  best  duck  into  the  captain's 
room. 

But  before  I  could  act  upon  this  decision  the  for 
ward  door  on  the  port  side  slowly  opened,  and 
Wong,  the  steward,  stepped  out.  I  shrank  back 
into  the  alleyway  as  the  door  opened,  and  the  China 
man  did  not  glance  in  my  direction.  His  whole 
attention  was  riveted  upon  the  companion  stairs; 
Swope's  voice  sounded  up  there  in  the  entrance  to 
the  hatch. 

Wong  softly  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  ran 
on  tiptoe  across  the  saloon,  disappearing  into  the 
pantry.  I  did  not  hesitate  an  instant.  Wong  had 
not  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and  his  room  would 
be  handy  enough  for  my  purpose.  From  it  I  could 
command  the  interior  of  the  big  room,  and  step 
forth  when  the  moment  arrived.  I  crossed  the  cor 
ner  of  the  saloon  in  a  bound,  and  turned  the  door 
knob  as  silently  as  had  Wong. 

I  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in  backwards.  My 
eyes  assured  me  I  was  unseen.  I  closed  the  door, 
all  save  a  crack,  through  which  I  meant  to  watch 
for  the  coming  of  my  victim. 

I  heard  a  gasp  behind  me.  I  shut  the  door  tight 
and  wheeled  about — and  found  myself  staring  into 
the  wide-open  eyes  of  the  lady. 


CHAPTER  XX 

SHE  was  on  her  knees,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room.     Aye,  and  it  was  a  room,  a  spacious 
cabin,  not  a  cubbyhole  berth  I  had  blundered 
into ;  the  lady's  own  quarters,  no  less.     There  was  a 
lamp  burning  in  gimbals,  and  its  light  disclosed  to 
my  first  startled  glance  that  it  was  a  woman's  room. 
Aye,  to  my  foc'sle-bred  senses  the  quarters  were 
palatial. 

The  lady  crouched  on  her  knees,  with  her  skirts 
spread  wide,  and  her  hands  hidden  behind  her  back. 
When  first  her  eyes  met  mine,  I  saw  she  was  fear- 
stricken.  But  immediately  she  recognized  me  the 
fear  gave  way  to  relief. 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  was — "  she  began.  Then  she 
saw  the  revolver  in  my  hand,  and  the  fear  leaped 
into  her  eyes  again.  Aye,  fear,  and  comprehension. 
"That — oh,  Boy,  what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

I  had  been  gaping,  open-mouthed,  too  surprised 
to  utter  a  sound.  But  her  swift  recognition,  and  her 
words,  brought  me  to  myself.  Also,  just  then  we 
heard  Captain  Swope's  voice.  He  was  in  the  saloon, 
calling  out  an  order  to  the  steward.  We  listened 
with  strained  attention,  both  of  us.  He  told  the 
steward  to  open  the  lazaret  hatch,  and  be  sharp 
about  it. 

250 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  251 

I  jerked  my  thumb  over  my  shoulder,  and  nodded 
significantly  to  the  lady.  "Don't  be  afraid,  ma'am," 
I  whispered.  "He  isn't  going  to  hurt  Newman.  He 
isn't  going  to  hurt  anyone — not  any  more."  Oh, 
the  dread  that  showed  in  her  face  when  we  heard 
Swope's  voice ! 

She  brought  her  hands  into  view,  when  I  spoke. 
Something  she  had  been  holding  behind  her  back 
dropped  on  the  deck  with  a  metallic  clink,  and  she 
pressed  her  hands  against  her  bosom. 

"You — you  mean — "  she  began. 

I  nodded  again.  I  really  thought  I  was  reassur 
ing  her,  lifting  a  load  of  care  from  her  heart. 

"I'm  going  out  there  and  get  him.  Don't  be 
afraid,  ma'am.  I  won't  make  a  rniss  of  it.  He  isn't 
going  to  hurt  Newman,  or  you,  or  anyone,  after  I've 
finished.  And  ma'am,  please — will  you  try  and  slip 
for'ard  and  tell  the  men  not  to  mutiny.  They'll 
listen  to  you,  especially  when  you  tell  them  the  Old 
Man  is  dead.  They  don't  want  to  mutiny,  ma'am — 
anyway,  the  squareheads  don't — but  they're  afraid 
not  to.  If  you  tell  them  I've  killed  him,  and  appeal 
to  them,  the  sailors  will  keep  quiet,  I  know;  and 
they'll  make  the  stiffs  keep  quiet,  too.  It  will  save 
some  lives,  ma'am — for  the  crowd  is  coming  aft 
to-night,  like  the  Old  Man  plans,  and  the  tradesmen 
are  in  the  roundhouse,  with  guns,  waiting  for  them." 

There  was  anguish  in  her  whispered  reply.  "Com 
ing  aft?  No,  no,  they  must  not  I  It  would  mean — 
his  death " 


252  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

She  stopped.  We  listened.  We  heard  Swope 
again,  out  in  the  saloon.  He  was  damning  Wong 
for  a  sluggard,  and  demanding  a  lighted  lantern 
that  instant  or  sooner,  or  "I'll  take  a  strip  off  your 
yellow  hide,  you  heathen!" 

"No,  not  Newman's  death,"  I  answered  the  lady. 
I  turned,  and  laid  my  hand  upon  the  door  knob.  My 
weapon  was  ready.  This  was  the  moment  I  must 
act. 

Before  I  could  open  the  door,  I  felt  the  lady's 
cool  fingers  upon  my  wrist. 

"No,  no,  not  that!  Not  murder!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Oh,  Boy,  you  would  not  take  life — you  would  not 
do  that!" 

I  turned  and  faced  her,  astonished.  Her  eyes 
were  but  a  few  inches  distant  from  mine,  now,  and 
to  my  amazement  I  read  in  their  expression  not 
approbation  but  startled  horror.  And  I  could  not 
mistake  the  meaning  in  her  voice.  She  disapproved 
of  my  killing  Captain  Swope. 

I  was  as  shocked  as  she.  Here  I  had  been  happy 
in  the  consciousness  I  was  playing  the  hero,  I  had 
believed  myself  cutting  a  very  pretty  figure  indeed 
in  the  lady's  eyes,  and,  instead — well,  my  bubble 
was  pricked.  As  I  looked  into  the  lady's  eyes,  I 
could  feel  my  grand  dimensions  dwindling  in  my 
own  eyes.  More  than  that,  I  began  to  feel  ashamed. 
Just  why  that  look  in  her  eyes  should  shame  me,  I 
didn't  know.  My  education  had  not  progressed  to 
the  self-analytic  stage.  But  shame  me  it  did.  I 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  253 

felt  mean,  vile.  I  felt,  without  consciously  reason 
ing  about  it,  that  murdering  Yankee  Swope  would, 
perhaps,  be  not  such  a  noble  deed  after  all.  I  con 
fronted  something  that  was  superior  to  the  bar 
barous  moral  code  of  my  brutal  world.  I  discov 
ered  it  in  the  lady's  wide  open  eyes.  It  vanquished 
me.  It  took  from  me  the  feeling  I  was  doing 
right. 

But  I  could  not  surrender  thus  tamely.  Indeed, 
the  need  for  the  deed  remained  as  urgent. 

"But,  ma'am,  you  know  I  must!"  I  said.  "You 
know — he  will  kill  him!" 

Her  little  fingers  were  plucking  at  mine,  which 
were  stubbornly  gripped  about  the  revolver's  stock. 
"I  know  you  must  not!"  she  answered.  "You  must 
not  take  human  life!"  It  was  a  commandment  she 
uttered,  and  I  took  it  as  such.  Especially,  when  she 
added,  "Do  you  think  he  would  kill  in  that  fashion?" 

That  finished  me.  Aye,  she  knew  how  to  beat 
down  my  defense ;  her  woman's  insight  had  supplied 
her  with  an  invincible  argument.  I  averted  my  eyes 
from  hers,  and  hung  my  head;  I  allowed  her  to  take 
the  revolver  from  my  grasp. 

For  I  knew  the  answer  to  her  question.  "He" 
would  not  creep  into  the  cabin  and  shoot  Captain 
Swope.  She  meant  Newman,  and  I  knew  that  New 
man  would  scorn  to  do  the  thing  I  planned  to  do. 
Kill  Swope  in  fair  fight,  with  chances  equal?  New 
man  might  do  that.  But  shoot  him  down  like  a 
mad  dog,  when  he  was  unprepared  and  perhaps  un- 


254.  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

armed — no,  Newman  would  not  do  that.  Nor 
would  any  decent  man. 

I  passed  another  milestone  in  my  evolution  into 
manhood,  as  I  stood  there,  hangdog  and  ashamed. 
I  added  another  "don't"  to  my  list. 

She  brushed  back  the  hair  from  my  forehead. 
Oh,  there  was  magic  in  her  fingers.  That  gentle 
stroke  restored  my  pride,  my  self-respect.  It  was 
a  gesture  of  understanding.  I  felt  now  as  I  felt  the 
first  time  I  saw  the  lady,  like  a  little  boy  before  a 
wise  and  merciful  mother.  I  knew  the  lady  under 
stood.  She  knew  my  heart  was  clean,  my  motive 
good. 

She  held  up  the  wreapon  she  had  taken  from  me. 
"This — is  not  the  way,"  she  said.  "It  is  never  the 
way.  You  must  not!" 

"I  must  not,"  I  echoed.  "Yes,  ma'am;  I  won't 
do  it  now.  But — what — how " 

I  floundered  and  stopped.  "What — how,"  aye, 
that  was  it.  If  I  did  not  kill  Captain  Swope  what 
would  happen  to  Newman?  That  was  the  question 
that  hammered  against  my  mind,  that  sent  a  wave 
of  sick  fear  through  me.  If  I  did  not  kill  Swope — 
then  Newman  was  lost. 

"But — I  must  do  something,"  I  added,  miserably. 
"You  know  what  will  happen  when  the  hands  come 
aft.  It  will  be  the  skipper's  excuse;  Newman  told 
me  it  would.  I  can't  see  him  butchered  without 
doing  something  to  prevent  it.  Why,  ma'am,  New 
man  is  my  friend!" 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  255 

"He  is  my  life,"  said  she.  Her  voice  was  so  low 
I  barely  caught  the  words.  "But  I  would  not  buy  his 
life  with  murder;  it  would  lower  him  to  their  level." 
She  swayed,  and  clutched  at  my  shoulder ;  I  thought 
she  was  falling,  and  gripped  her  arm  to  steady  her. 
But  she  was  not  the  swooning  kind.  Not  the  lady. 
She  recovered  herself  instantly.  She  clutched  my 
lapels,  and  laid  down  the  law  to  me. 

''There  must  be  no  fighting.  The  men  must  not 
come  aft,"  said  she.  "If  they  do,  it  will  ruin  every 
thing.  Boy,  you  must  stop  them.  Deakin  will  help 
you.  You  must  hold  them  back." 

I  shook  my  head.  "It's  too  late,"  I  informed  her. 
"They  will  not  listen  to  the  parson,  or  me;  they  are 
too  afraid." 

"But  they  must  be  stopped!"  she  cried. 

"Only  one  man  can  stop  them — and  that's  New 
man,  himself,"  I  replied. 

"What  time  have  they  set?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"Next  eight  bells,"  I  told  her.  "We  gave  the 
skipper's  spy  to  understand  it  was  timed  for  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  but  the  lads  really  mean  to 
make  the  rush  at  midnight." 

"Then  we  have  time,"  was  her  verdict.  "And 
you  must  help  me." 

She  pointed  to  the  deck.  My  eyes  followed  her 
gesture,  and  for  the  first  time  I  examined  the  floor 
of  the  room.  The  first  thing  my  gaze  encountered 
was  a  large  carpenter's  auger,  or  brace  and  bit;  the 
next  thing  I  saw,  was  a  pattern  of  holes  in  the  floor. 


256  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

There  were  two  rows  of  them,  parallel,  each  about 
eighteen  inches  long,  and  the  same  distance  apart. 
The  holes  overlapped  each  other,  and  made  a  con 
tinuous  cut  in  the  deck. 

The  lady  thrust  out  her  hands,  palms  up,  for 
my  inspection.  Upon  each  palm  was  a  great  red 
blister. 

"I  was  nearly  despairing,"  said  she,  "I  could 
no  longer  press  down  hard  enough.  But 
now » 

She  did  not  need  to  explain.  The  sight  of  the 
holes  and  the  auger  told  me  enough  to  set  me  to 
work  instantly.  Aye,  I  grabbed  up  the  tool  and 
turned  to  with  a  song  in  my  heart  and  the  strength 
of  Hercules  in  my  arms.  There  was  after  all  a 
chance  to  save  my  friend,  and  it  depended  in  part 
upon  my  haste  and  strength.  A  chance  to  save  him 
without  murder. 

The  lady  locked  the  door,  and  came  and  sat  down 
beside  me.  While  I  worked  she  explained  the  plot 
behind  the  task.  She  talked  eagerly,  without  re 
serve;  it  helped  her,  eased  her  mind,  I  think,  to 
unload  into  my  ears. 

I  was  boring  my  way  to  Newman.  My  task  was 
to  connect  the  two  rows  of  holes  already  bored 
through  the  deck  with  two  other  rows;  when  I  was 
finished  there  would  be  an  opening  in  the  deck  some 
eighteen  inches  square.  A  manhole  to  the  lazaret 
below,  where  lay  Newman. 

But  this  was  not  all.     She  told  me  there  was  a 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  257 

scheme  to  free  her  and  him  completely  from  the 
captain  and  the  ship.  Well,  I  had  guessed  some 
thing  like  that  was  in  the  wind;  but  I  did  not  tell 
her  so.  She  said  that  Mister  Lynch  was  in  the  plot; 
aye,  this  hard  bucko,  this  "square-shooter,"  as  I  had 
heard  him  called,  was  the  instigator  and  prime 
mover  in  the  affair.  One  of  the  tradesmen  was  also 
friendly,  and  had  brought  the  lady  the  tool  I  was 
using  to  cut  through  the  deck.  Wong,  the  steward, 
who  was  the  lady's  devoted  slave,  played  a  very 
important  part. 

The  plot  was  this.  We  were  to  get  Newman  out 
of  the  lazaret  (she  always  called  him  uRoy"  when 
she  spoke  of  him  or  to  him;  and  when  she  men 
tioned  Swope,  it  was  always  with  a  little  hesitating 
catch  in  her  voice)  through  this  hole  we  were  mak 
ing.  She  had  the  key  that  would  release  him  from 
irons.  Wong  had  stolen  it  from  the  skipper's 
desk. 

When  he  was  out  of  the  lazaret,  the  situation 
would  be  managed  by  Mister  Lynch.  The  ship's 
longboat,  in  the  port  skids,  was  ready  for  the  water. 
They  planned,  said  the  lady,  to  launch  this  boat  at 
night,  in  the  second  mate's  watch,  and  she  and  New 
man  were  to  sail  away  together. 

For  it  was  no  haphazard  plan  born  of  despera 
tion  after  Newman's  arrest.  Newman  knew  all 
about  it.  It  had  kept  him  occupied  this  past  week; 
it  was  responsible  in  large  measure  for  the  mys 
terious  happenings  of  the  past  week,  for  Newman's 


258  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

absences,  and  for  the  lady's  masquerade  in  Nils' 
clothes.  She  had  access  to  Nils'  chest  through 
Wong,  who  had  charge  of  it,  and  she  first  dressed 
up  in  Nils'  clothes  so  that  she  might,  as  she  thought, 
move  about  at  night  on  deck  unobserved.  When 
she  was  observed,  and  taken  for  a  ghost,  both  New 
man  and  Lynch  told  her  to  continue  the  masquerade ; 
it  helped  their  business  with  the  longboat,  because 
it  kept  spying  eyes  away  from  that  part  of  the  ship. 
They  had  been  provisioning  and  preparing  this 
boat  for  a  week,  working  thus  in  the  night,  and  by 
stealth.  Another  day  or  two,  and  they  would  have 
been  away. 

But  the  captain's  blow  this  afternoon  had  jeopard 
ized  the  entire  scheme.  Indeed,  it  was  on  the  verge 
of  utter  ruin.  For  Newman  was  in  the  black  hole 
in  irons,  and  the  crew  were  preparing  to  mutiny. 

It  was  this  last,  the  threatened  uprising,  that 
terrified  the  lady.  It  would  finally  ruin  their  chances 
of  escape,  she  told  me.  At  all  hazards,  we  must  get 
Newman  out  of  the  lazaret  before  the  sailors' 
attack  occurred.  We  must  get  him  forward,  she 
said,  so  that  he  might  squelch  the  mutiny  before  it 
began.  Oh,  Newman  could  tame  Boston  and 
Blackie,  he  could  tame  the  stiffs  and  compose  the 
squareheads;  she  had  no  doubt  he  could  do  all  that, 
and  instantly.  I  was  not  so  sure.  I  didn't  think 
that  anything  or  anybody  could  stop  the  crew — 
unless  it  was  killing  Swope,  which  she  forbade.  But 
I  didn't  say  so. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  259 

And  in  any  event,  the  immediate  thing  to  do  was 
to  release  Newman.  It  would  at  least  give  him  a 
fighting  chance.  She  urged  haste,  and  I  worked  like 
a  fiend.  It  was  hard  work.  The  deck  planking  was 
three  inches  thick,  and  the  number  of  holes  I  must 
bore  seemed  endless.  I  was  surprised  at  the  amount 
of  work  already  accomplished;  it  did  not  seem  pos 
sible  that  this  slender  woman  had  done  the  two  long 
rows  of  holes.  Nor  had  she,  I  learned.  Wong  had 
bored  most  of  them,  during  the  odd  moments  he 
could  slip  away  unobserved  from  his  work.  The 
tradesman  who  furnished  the  tool  had  even  driven 
a  few.  The  lady  had  done  some  of  the  work,  as 
the  condition  of  her  hands  proved.  But  my  coming 
was  really  providential.  She  could  never  have 
finished  the  job  on  time,  and  now  she  knew  of  the 
crew's  intention,  she  recognized  the  need  of 
haste. 

I  longed  mightily  for  a  saw.  Yet  I  knew  I  could 
not  have  used  a  saw  had  I  possessed  one.  A  saw 
makes  a  carrying  noise.  The  tool  I  had  was  nearly 
noiseless.  I  sweated  and  wondered,  and  now  and 
then  asked  a  question. 

I  wondered  what  Lynch  would  do  when  the  lads 
came  aft.  Aye,  and  I  discovered  that  this  was  one 
reason  the  lady  was  so  terrified  at  the  prospect  of 
mutiny.  For  Lynch,  she  was  certain,  would  make 
common  cause  with  the  rest  of  the  afterguard 
against  any  uprising  forward.  He  was  helping  her 
and  Newman.  But  he  had  no  interest  in  helping  the 


260  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

hands.  The  hands  were  just  hands  to  him,  so  much 
beef  to  work  and  beat.  He  would  never  side  with 
the  foc'sle  against  the  cabin. 

"I  have  sailed  three  voyages  with  Lynch,"  said 
she.  "He  is  a  hard  man,  a  cruel  man;  I  have  seen 
him  do  terrible  things  to  sailors.  But  he  is  also, 
according  to  his  lights,  a  just  man.  His  brutality 
is  always  for  what  he  considers  the  ship's  welfare, 
never  for  any  personal  reason.  You  know  how  he 
has  treated  you,  and  Roy,  and  other  men  who  know 
and  do  their  work." 

"Fair  enough,"  I  admitted. 

"When  my — my  husband  tried  to  kill  Roy,  that 
night  you  and  he  were  aloft  together,  he  violated 
James  Lynch's  very  strict  code.  He  considered  that 
attempt  a  serious  blot  upon  his  honor.  He  told 
him — Angus — as  much.  He  told  him  he  would  not 
have  that  sort  of  thing  in  his  watch.  It  wasn't 
regard  for  Roy  that  made  him  say  that;  it  was  just 
that  he  thinks  it  is  not  right  to  kill  or  even  hurt  a 
man  for  personal  reasons,  but  only  when  the  welfare 
of  the  ship  is  at  stake.  And  also,  I  think — well,  he 
— likes  me.  He  is  willing  to  help  me.  That  is  why, 
a  week  ago,  he  came  to  me  and  offered  his  help. 
He  had  discovered  what  my — my  husband  really 
intended  doing;  I  think  he  overheard  a  conversation 
between  my — between  Angus  and  the  mate.  He 
said  we  were  both  in  danger,  I  as  well  as  Roy,  and 
that  we  must  leave  the  ship. 

"Roy   suggested   the   longboat,    and  he   agreed. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  261 

Roy  can  navigate,  of  course,  and  there  are  islands 
not  distant  from  our  present  position.  So  we  have 
been  preparing  the  boat,  and  Mr.  Lynch  planned  to 
launch  it  some  midwatch  when  the  mate  and — and 
Captain  Swope  were  in  their  berths.  He  hoped  to 
get  us  away  so  quietly  they  would  know  nothing 
about  it  until  hours  later." 

"But  surely  Lynch  didn't  intend  staying  by  the 
ship?  Why,  when  the  Old  Man  found  out  he'd 
skin  him  alive !"  I  exclaimed. 

"He  said  not,  and  I  think  not,"  she  said.  "He 
has  sailed  under  my — my  husband  for  years.  He 
is  not  like  Mr.  Fitzgibbon,  and  the  others.  He  does 
not  fear  my  husband.  I  think  Angus  fears  him.  He 
knows  things  that  have  happened  in  this  ship  that 
my — my  husband  dare  not  have  told  on  shore.  He 
refused  when  we  urged  him  to  come  with  us;  he 
declared  he  would  be  in  no  danger,  that  he  could 
guard  himself.  I  think  he  can." 

The  lady  clenched  her  hands,  and  her  voice  broke 
a  little,  as  she  disclosed  the  anxiety  that  was 
wrenching  her  soul. 

"But  now — I  don't  know  what  he  will  do.  If 
we  can  free  Roy  in  time;  if  we  can  stop  trouble 
forward!  Then  I  know  Mr.  Lynch  will  keep  his 
promise;  he  will  lock  up  Angus  and  the  mate,  get 
them  out  of  the  way  somehow,  until  Roy  and  I 
have  left  the  ship.  But  if  the  men  rise  before  we 
have  gone — then  he  will  think  his  duty  is  to  the 
ship.  He  will  not  think  of  us,  and  my — my  hus- 


262  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

band  will  do  what  he  wishes.  Do  you  under 
stand?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  But  we  have  until  midnight,  or 
after,  and  it's  just  a  little  past  two  bells,  now.  Ten 
minutes  more,  ma'am,  and  I'll  have  this  hole  open." 

But  it  took  a  little  longer  than  ten  minutes.  Three 
bells  struck  while  I  was  still  whittling  and  digging 
at  the  caulking  in  the  seams  with  my  sheath  knife. 
But  the  echo  of  the  big  ship's  bell  forward  had 
hardly  died  away  when  I  carefully,  ever  so  care 
fully,  lifted  up  and  laid  back  the  cut-away  section 
of  the  deck.  I  had  left  the  caulking  at  one  end 
nearly  intact,  so  the  solid  piece  laid  back  like  a 
trap-door. 

The  lady  and  I  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  hole  and 
peered  down  into  the  littered  darkness.  We  could 
make  out,  dimly,  heaps  of  barrels  and  boxes.  A 
damp,  chill  air  rushed  up  into  our  faces,  carrying 
with  it  the  sound  of  a  scurrying  rat,  and  another 
sound  which  made  the  lady  gasp  and  tremble,  and 
caused  me  to  grind  my  teeth  with  rage.  It  was  a 
long,  drawn-out  sigh,  the  moan  of  a  man  in  agony 
of  flesh  or  spirit.  It  was  Newman's  voice.  Min 
gling  with  it,  and  following  it,  came  the  low, 
demoniac  chuckle  of  Captain  Swope. 

Lying  flat  and  craning  my  neck  into  the  hole,  I 
saw,  far  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  ship,  the 
flicker  of  a  lantern  upon  boxes.  I  immediately  drew 
back,  got  to  my  feet,  and  extinguished  the  lamp 
in  the  gimbals.  Then  I  snatched  a  blanket  from  the 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  263 

steward's  bunk,  and  spread  it  across  the  hole.  That 
done,  there  was  no  danger  of  light  or  draught  be 
traying  us  to  the  man  below. 

I  asked  orders  of  the  lady,  and  discussed  ways 
and  means  with  her.  It  was  decided  at  once  that 
I  should  go  below  and  effect  Newman's  release — 
and  she  gave  me  the  small  key  that  the  Chinaman 
had  filched.  I  was  the  stronger  and  more  active, 
and  could  more  easily  make  my  way  about  in  the 
dark,  cluttered  lazaret;  besides,  her  work  lay  above. 
Swope  was  evidently  pleasuring  himself  by  viewing 
and  taunting  his  helpless  prisoner ;  he  must  be  drawn 
away  from  this  amusement. 

She  could  not  go  on  deck  herself,  she  said;  FitZx 
gibbon  was  up  there,  and  would  see  her — and  she 
was  supposed  to  be  locked  in  her  room.  But  she 
would  send  Wong  on  deck  with  a  message  to  Mister 
Lynch;  she  would  have  Lynch  sing  out  for  the  cap 
tain's  presence  on  the  poop.  When  the  captain 
responded  to  the  hail,  I  was  to  accomplish  my  task. 
I  was  to  bring  Newman  to  this  room.  What  hap 
pened  then  depended  upon  chance — and  Lynch. 
Newman  and  I  must  get  forward,  some  way,  and 
quiet  the  men;  Lynch  would  take  care  of  Swope. 
She  had  a  fine  faith  in  the  second  mate,  had  the 
lady. 

I  had  never  been  in  the  lazaret,  the  task  of 
breaking  out  stores  having  usually  fallen  to  the 
stiffs.  But  from  foc'sle  gossip  I  knew  it  was  a  big 
storeroom,  comprising  the  whole  'tweendeck  be- 


264  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

neath  the  cabin  space.  The  Golden  Bough,  like 
most  clippers  of  her  day,  sometimes  carried  emi 
grant  passengers,  and  had  need  of  a  spacious  lazaret. 

The  lady  sketched  the  lay  of  the  land  for  me. 
The  hatch  to  the  lazaret  was  in  the  saloon  floor, 
well  aft,  on  the  starboard  side.  Wong  was  more 
familiar  than  any  man  with  the  lazaret's  interior, 
and  he  had  decided  the  deck  should  be  cut  through 
from  this  room,  rather  than  at  any  other  point. 
This,  said  the  lady,  was  because  farther  aft,  on  this 
side  of  the  ship,  a  strong  room  occupied  the  lazaret 
space  (aye,  the  same  strong  room  which  so  tickled 
the  fancy  of  some  of  my  shipmates ! ) .  The  China 
man  had  planned  with  foresight;  he  had  even  dis 
posed  stores  below  to  convenience  and  shield  the 
man  who  played  rescuer.  When  I  dropped  through 
the  hole,  the  lady  told  me,  I  would  find  myself  in 
a  narrow  alleyway,  walled  with  tiers  of  beef  casks 
and  other  stores;  if  I  followed  this  alleyway  I 
would  come  to  the  lazaret  hatch,  near  where  New 
man  was  secured. 

She  thought  I  should  wait  until  I  heard  the  cap 
tain  leave  the  lazaret.  But  to  this  I  demurred. 
The  success  of  the  scheme  might  well  depend  upon 
the  leeway  of  a  moment's  time.  The  ship's  noises, 
always  present  in  a  ship's  hold,  would  cover  any 
slight  noise  I  might  make.  Truth  to  tell,  that 
sound  of  Newman  in  pain  had  thrown  me  into  a 
fever  of  impatience  to  get  to  his  side;  and  I  suspect 
it  rendered  the  lady  less  cautious,  too. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  265 

"God  bless  you,  Boy — and,  oh,  be  careful,"  she 
whispered. 

I  drew  back  the  blanket,  and  lowered  my  body 
into  the  opening.  I  hung  by  my  hands  an  instant, 
and  felt  her  draw  the  blanket  over  my  head  as  she 
covered  the  hole  again.  Then  I  let  go,  and  dropped. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

I  CROUCHED  behind  a  row  of  flour  barrels, 
which  stood  on  end  handy  to  the  hatch,  and 
peered  through  the  chinks.  The  captain  had 
hung  his  lantern  on  a  beam  overhead,  and  its  rays 
limned  like  a  stage-setting  an  open  space  some  six 
feet  square.  Aye,  a  stage-setting,  and  the  scene  a 
torture  chamber.  I  bit  my  lips  to  restrain  a  cry 
of  horror  and  rage  when  I  looked  through  the 
chinks  between  the  barrels,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
I  kept  myself  from  rushing  forth  and  falling  upon 
the  fiend  who  had  contrived  and  was  enjoying  the 
scene. 

Captain  Swope  was  seated  upon  an  upturned  keg. 
He  had  placed  the  lantern  so  its  light  fell  full  upon 
Newman  (it  illumined  himself,  for  my  eyes,  as  well) 
and  he  was  talking  to  the  prisoner,  mocking  him. 

And  Newman!  It  was  the  sight  of  him  that 
made  me  choke,  that  made  me  finger  my  knife  hilt. 
Newman — my  friend! 

He  was  at  the  far  end  of  that  open  space,  trussed 
up  to  the  starboard  limbers.  Trussed  up — and  in 
what  way!  You  will  remember,  when  they  placed 
him  under  arrest,  the  captain  ordered  his  hands 
ironed  behind  his  back.  The  reason  was  now  appar 
ent.  His  hands  were  still  behind  his  back;  aye, 

266 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  287 

when  they  trussed  him  up,  they  drew  up  his  hands 
until  they  were  on  a  level  with  his  head,  and 
secured  him  in  that  position.  His  feet  were  also 
ironed,  and  the  chain  lashed  to  a  limber.  So  he 
stood,  or  rather  hung — for  he  could  not  stand  prop 
erly  with  his  arms  wrenched  back  in  that  position — 
and  the  whole  weight  of  his  body  dragged  upon  his 
wrists  and  shoulder  blades.  So  he  had  stood  during 
the  hours  that  had  passed  since  afternoon.  Tor 
ture,  agony — that  is  what  it  meant  to  be  trussed 
up  in  that  position. 

I  thought  I  recognized  Fitzgibbon's  handiwork 
in  this  torture;  though  I  dare  say  it  was  originally 
Swope's  invention.  But  we  had  seen  Fitzgibbon  use 
this  same  method  of  inflicting  pain  and  terror,  we 
men  forward.  One  day,  for  an  imagined  insolence, 
he  had  trussed  up  Nigger  to  the  mainmast  in  this 
very  fashion,  and  left  him  there  for  a  short  half- 
hour.  After  five  minutes  Nigger  was  wild  with 
pain.  When  he  was  cut  down,  his  arms  seemed 
paralyzed,  and  it  was  a  full  day  ere  the  ache  passed 
from  them. 

And  Newman  had  been  enduring  this  pain  for 
hours.  But  now,  I  thought,  he  must  be  mercifully 
unconscious,  for  his  head  hung  upon  his  breast,  and 
he  made  no  sign  that  he  heard  the  captain's  gibes. 

It  was  sport  to  Swope's  liking,  and  he  was  enjoy 
ing  himself  right  royally.  Aye,  I  could  tell.  The 
words  that  slid  between  his  full  lips  were  laden  with 
the  sensuous  delight  their  utterance  gave  the 


268  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

speaker.  I  lay  in  my  retreat  waiting  for  the  hail 
that  would  draw  the  beast  on  deck,  and  while  I 
waited  I  listened  to  him,  and  observed  his  manner. 
Oh,  Swope  was  having  a  fine  time,  a  happy  time. 
If  the  lady  had  not  taken  the  revolver  from  me,  I 
fear  I  should  have  shot  the  man  despite  my  promise. 
As  it  was  my  sheath  knife  lay  bared  in  my  hand,  and 
I  had  to  fight  myself  to  keep  from  leaping  the  bar 
rier  and  confronting  him.  Aye,  to  face  him,  and 
make  him  eat  the  steel  out  of  my  hand! 

Yes,  Swope  was  in  a  happy  mood.  A  rollicking, 
loquacious  mood.  He  talked.  Unconsciously  he 
made  me  witness  to  his  confession  of  black  treach 
eries,  and  deeds  more  loathsome  than  I  could  have 
imagined  myself. 

When  I  reached  my  position  behind  the  barrels, 
and  was  able  to  distinguish  his  words — he  was 
boasting  of  and  baring  his  secrets  in  a  voice  not 
meant  to  carry  beyond  Newman's  ears — he  was 
taunting  Newman. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  call  upon  God  to  help  you?" 
says  he.  "He  has  helped  you  a  lot  in  the  past, 
hasn't  he,  Roy?  And  He  has  helped  her  a  lot, 
hasn't  he?  Helped  her  to  stand  me.  Oh,  that's  a 
joke!  The  just  and  merciful  One — d'you  remem 
ber  how  old  Baintree  used  to  rant?  You  approved, 
didn't  you.  You  agreed  with  old  Baintree.  So 
did  I,  Roy,  to  his  face. 

"But  you — why  you  were  a  damned  Puritan,  Roy. 
You  wouldn't  do  this,  you  wouldn't  do  that,  you 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  269 

would  be  clean  of  vice — your  very  words,  Roy! — 
and  you  would  be  honest  and  just  with  men.  That's 
the  sort  of  thing  that  paid,  says  you. 

"And  didn't  it  pay  you,  though!  Ho,  ho;  it's 
too  rich,  Roy!  You  would  make  yourself  as  good  a 
man  as  old  Baintree ;  you  would  make  yourself 
worthy  of  his  daughter.  Remember  telling  me  that? 
And  didn't  you,  though — with  my  help !  My  help, 
Roy — not  God's!  It  was  Black  Angus  and  the 
Devil  did  it! 

"Well,  well,  I  thought  I  would  surprise  you  with 
my  little  tale  of  how  I  used  the  Twigg  girl  to  spoil 
your  chance  with  Mary.  But  Beasley  surprised  you 
instead.  Didn't  he,  now?  A  neat  trick,  eh,  Roy? 
You  never  guessed? 

"You  never  guessed,  either,  all  that  I  had  planned 
for  you  that  time.  If  you  hadn't  been  in  such  a 
hurry  to  leave  town!  But  then — I  was  just  as  well 
pleased.  With  Beulah  out  of  the  way  as  well  as 
you — it  was  plain  sailing  with  Mary,  Roy. 

"No,  I  never  wanted  Mary.  Not  for  herself. 
She's  not  my  kind,  Roy;  a  damned,  sniveling  saint 
isn't  my  idea  of  a  woman.  But  I  wanted  her  money. 
Old  Baintree's  money.  And  I  got  it. 

"I  got  Baintree,  too.  It  was  necessary;  I  had  to 
kill  the  old  fool.  He  knew  too  much  about  me,  and 
if  he  told  Mary — well,  I  was  playing  the  saint  with 
her,  just  then.  He  would  never  have  consented  to 
her  marrying  me;  and  also — the  money,  you  know. 
So  I  eliminated  him,  Roy.  And  God  let  you  suffer 


270  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

for  what  I  did!  Ho,  ho,  that's  rich,  isn't  it?  Come 
to  think  of  it,  it's  sound  theology — vicarious  atone 
ment,  eh?  You  got  stripes,  and  I  got  Mary — and 
her  money,  which  I  have  spent  most  pleasurably. 

"But  you  were  always  a  fool,  Roy — a  stupid, 
trusting  fool.  You  trusted  me,  didn't  you?  I  was 
your  bosom  friend,  your  boyhood  chum,  whose  wild 
ways  grieved  you.  Fool,  fool,  if  you  had  possessed 
the  wit  of  a  jackass  you  would  have  known  I  hated 
you!  Hate,  hate,  hate!  I  have  hated  you  all  my 
life,  Roy!  I  hated  you  when  we  were  boys  and 
you  made  me  take  second  place.  I  have  hated  you 
ever  since;  I  hate  you  now — so  much  it  is  almost 
love,  Roy!  Eh,  but  I  never  love.  I  hate.  And 
when  I  hate — I  hurt!" 

To  all  this  tirade  Newman  returned  no  answer. 
He  did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  hung  silent  in  his 
bonds,  his  head  on  his  breast  and  his  face  hidden. 
He  might  have  been  unconscious.  I  thought  he 
was,  for  he  did  not  even  look  up  when  the  captain 
was  excitedly  chanting  his  hate.  Swope  was  plainly 
piqued  at  this  indifference;  he  got  up  from  his  keg 
and  stepped  close  to  Newman. 

"But  you  are  not  thinking  of  yourself,  are  you, 
Roy?"  he  says.  "You  are  thinking  of  her,  I  know. 
How  sweet!  Sentiment  was  always  your  strong 
point.  Well,  think  hard  about  her,  Roy,  think  your 
fill;  for  she  is  almost  as  near  her  end  as  you  are 
near  yours.  But  not  quite  so  near.  I  intend  to 
break  that  haughty  spirit  before  I — er — eliminate 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  271 

her.  Oh,  yes,  it  will  break.  Trust  me  to  know  the 
sure  way.  Roy,  don't  you  want  to  know  what  I  am 
going  to  do  to  Mary?" 

He  paused  a  moment,  and,  chuckling  and  smack 
ing  his  lips,  stood  looking  at  Newman's  bowed 
figure.  Then  he  said  slowly  and  deliberately,  actu 
ally  lingering  over  the  words.  "I  am  going  to  make 
a  strumpet  of  the  wench  for  Fitzgibbon's  pleasure !" 

Newman  stirred.  "Ah,  that  wakes  you  up  I" 
cried  Swope.  It  did,  indeed.  Newman  was  not 
unconscious.  I  could  have  wished  he  was,  so  he 
might  not  have  heard  those  words.  He  lifted  his 
face  to  the  light,  and  I  could  see  the  sweat  of  agony 
upon  it.  He  did  not  speak.  He  just  looked  at  the 
man  in  front  of  him.  It  was  a  look  of  unutterable 
loathing;  his  expression  was  as  though  he  were  re 
garding  something  indescribably  obscene  and  revolt 
ing.  And  then  he  pursed  his  lips  and  spat  in  Cap 
tain  Swope's  face. 

The  skipper  stepped  back,  and  swabbed  his  cheek 
with  his  sleeve.  I  thought  he  would  strike  Newman, 
kick  him,  practice  some  devilish  cruelty  upon  him 
in  payment.  Aye,  I  was  crouched  for  the  spring, 
with  my  sheath  knife  ready;  if  he  had  laid  finger 
upon  Newman  I  should  have  had  his  life  in  an 
instant.  I  was  all  the  barbarian  that  moment,  my 
new-found  scruples  forgotten.  I  was  in  a  killing 
mood.  What  man  would  not  have  been. 

But  Captain  Swope  did  not  attempt  to  repay  the 
insult  with  any  physical  cruelty.  He  knew  he  was 


272  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

already  racking  his  enemy's  body  to  the  limit  of 
endurance,  and  his  aim,  I  discovered,  was  to  supple 
ment  this  bodily  suffering  with  mental  torture.  In 
deed,  Swope  seemed  pleased  at  Newman's  act.  He 
laughed  as  he  wiped  his  face. 

"That  stings — eh,  Roy?  It's  true — be  certain 
of  that,  you  soft-hearted  fool.  I  tell  the  truth 
sometimes,  Roy — when  it  serves  my  purpose.  And 
I  want  you  to  imagine  the  details  of  what  is  going 
to  happen  to  her.  Think  of  it,  Roy — the  Lady  of 
the  Golden  Bough,  the  saintly  Mrs.  Swope,  the 
sweet  Mary  Baintree  that  was — lying  in  Fitzgib- 
bon's  arms!  Pretty  thought!" 

Chuckling,  Swope  resumed  his  seat.  He  leaned 
forward,  and  watched  Newman  with  hawklike  inten 
sity.  But  Newman  gave  him  little  cause  to  chortle; 
his  head  dropped  again  upon  his  breast,  and  he  gave 
no  sound,  no  movement. 

"Why  don't  you  call  on  God?"  asked  Swope. 
"Why  don't  you  call  on  me?n 

Newman  lifted  his  head.  "You  degenerate 
beast!"  he  said.  He  said  it  evenly,  without  passion, 
and  immediately  withdrew  his  features  from  the 
other's  scrutiny. 

But  the  captain  was  satisfied.  He  slapped  his 
thigh  with  delight. 

"It  stings,  eh,  Roy?  It  burns!  It  runs  through 
your  veins  like  fire !  Doesn't  it?  It's  a  hot  thought. 
And  here's  another  one  to  keep  it  company —  You 
can  do  nothing  to  prevent  itl  To  hairy  old  Fitz 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  273 

she'll  go — and  you  can't  prevent  it!  Think  of  that, 
Roy!" 

Newman  gave  no  sign  he  heard,  but  the  black 
hearted  villain  on  the  keg  knew  that  the  big  fellow's 
ears  were  open  and  that  his  words  were  like  stabs 
in  a  raw  wound.  He  talked  on,  and  described 
villainies  to  come  and  villainies  accomplished;  the 
tale  of  his  misdeeds  seemed  to  possess  him.  He 
gloried  in  them,  gloated  over  them.  And  as  I 
listened,  I  realized,  ignorant  young  whelp  though 
I  was,  that  this  man  was  different  from  any  man  I 
had  ever  met  or  imagined.  He  wasn't  human;  he 
was  a  freak,  a  human-looking  thing  with  a  tiger's 
nature. 

Always  he  reminded  me  of  a  cat,  from  the  very 
first  moment  I  clapped  eyes  upon  him;  never  did  he 
remind  me  more  of  a  cat — or  tiger — than  when  he 
sat  upon  the  keg  and  teased  Newman.  He  seemed 
to  purr  his  content  with  the  situation. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking,  Roy,"  says  he. 
"You  are  thinking  that  my  brave  and  upright  second 
mate  will  prevent  it  happening  to  our  dear  little 
Mary?  Am  I  right,  eh?  Vain  thought.  Our 
friend,  Lynch,  will  not  be  here  to  interfere.  I  have 
seen  to  that.  He  grows  dangerous,  does  Jim  Lynch, 
so — elimination.  Ah,  I  could  write  a  treatise 
upon  the  Art  of  Elimination — couldn't  I?  Angus 
Swope,  the  great  eliminator!  It  is  my  specialty, 
Roy. 

"Neatness,    thoroughness,    dispatch,    everything 


274  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

shipshape,  no  loose  ends  flying — that's  my  style, 
Roy.  Now  there  was  neatness  and  dispatch  about 
my  running  you  out  of  Freeport  when  I  found  your 
presence  there  inconvenient.  Don't  you  think  there 
was?  Eh,  you  great  fool?  You  pulled  my  chest 
nuts  out  of  the  fire  very  nicely  indeed.  But  I  was 
not  as  thorough  as  I  should  have  been  in  that  affair. 
A  loose  end,  or  two,  eh,  Roy?  Beasley — and  your 
self.  Ah — but  I  improved  with  practice.  I  left  no 
loose  end  that  night  in  Bellingham,  did  I?  Unless 
the  fact  that  your  neck  didn't  stretch,  as  I  intended, 
could  be  called  a  loose  end.  But  then — you'll  be 
tucked  out  of  sight  again  very  soon,  and  this  time 
for  good  and  all.  I  never  did  believe  in  imprison 
ment  for  life,  Roy;  it  is  such  a  cruel  punishment. 
I'm  a  tender-hearted  man,  Roy — ho,  ho,  that's  rich, 
eh?  I  told  that  judge,  after  he  sentenced  you,  that 
he  would  have  been  acting  more  kindly  had  he  dis 
regarded  the  jury's  recommendation  and  hanged  you 
out  of  hand.  And  do  you  know  what  he  told  me, 
Roy?  He  said  I  was  right,  that  you  deserved  hang 
ing.  Ho,  ho,  deserved  hanging!  And  he  was  a 
godly  man,  Roy. 

"Oh,  what  a  great  fool  you  were!  How  easily  I 
made  you  play  my  game !  That  night  you  had  me  to 
dinner  on  board  your  ship,  in  Bellingham — you 
never  guessed  why  I  fished  for  that  invitation  ?  Why 
I  persuaded  you  to  send  your  mates  ashore  that 
night?  Just  another  of  Angus'  scrapes,  thought 
you;  he  wants  to  confide  in  me,  and  ask  my  advice. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  275 

Angus  wants  my  help,  thought  you.    So  I  did,  Roy, 
so  I  did. 

"I  needed  your  help  badly.  But  not  the  kind  of 
help  you  would  have  offered;  no,  I  needed  your  help 
in  a  different  way.  I  needed  a  catspaw,  Roy. 

"I  was  skating  on  pretty  thin  ice  just  about  then, 
Roy.  I  needed  old  Baintree's  money.  I  needed 
Mary  to  get  the  money.  But  Mary  was  only  willing 
to  take  me  because  her  father  wished  her  to;  and 
I  was  heartily  sick  of  playing  the  saint  to  stand  well 
with  him.  Oh,  well,  I'll  tell  you — why  not?  The 
old  hypocrite  had  a  Puritan's  sharp  eyes,  and  he  had 
caught  me  in  a  slip-up  or  two,  and  I  knew  he  was 
about  to  tell  Mary  to  break  the  betrothal.  And 
there  was  another  thing,  a  little  investment  I  han 
dled  for  him.  He  was  bound  to  discover  about  it 
shortly,  when  the  payments  were  due,  and — well, 
you  know,  Roy,  what  an  absurd  attitude  he  had 
towards  a  little  slip  like  that.  I  was  in  a  rather 
desperate  fix,  you  see;  yes,  I  really  needed  your 
help,  Roy. 

"Besides  there  was  you,  yourself,  to  be  taken  care 
of.  You  were  one  of  my  worries,  not  a  big  worry, 
but  still  a  worry.  What  if  you  forgot  your  pride  ? 
What  if  Mary  forgot  her  pride?  Of  course,  you 
were  in  Bellingham,  and  outward  bound;  and  she 
was  home  in  Freeport — but  who  can  tell  what  a 
woman  will  do  where  her  heart  is  concerned?  Be 
sides,  I  hated  you,  damn  you !  I  was  not  going  to 
overlook  the  luck  that  brought  the  three  of  us  into 


276  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

the  same  port  at  the  same  time.  You  had  been  my 
catspaw  once;  why  not  again? 

"So  I  had  you  invite  me  off  to  dinner.  That  cozy 
little  dinner,  in  your  own  cabin,  just  you  and  I,  and 
Stord  to  wait  on  us.  I  bet  you  never  guessed  until 
your  trial  that  your  steward  was  my  man,  if  you 
guessed  it  then.  Aye,  body  and  soul  my  man.  When 
I  crooked  my  finger,  Stord  bent  his  body. 

"Do  you  remember  that  dinner,  Roy?  I  bet 
you  do!  I  crucified  you,  damn  you!  You  would 
be  brave,  you  would  be  gallant,  eh?  You  would 
congratulate  me  upon  the  coming  marriage,  toast 
the  best  man,  who  had  won  the  race.  Oh,  I  enjoyed 
your  hospitality  that  night!  How  you  wrenched 
out  the  words !  You  didn't  want  to  talk  about 
Mary,  did  you?  But  I  made  you  talk,  I  made  you 
squirm,  eh?  And  then,  when  I  was  sick  of  your 
platitudes — just  a  nod  to  Stord,  and  three  little 
drops  of  chloral  in  your  glass ! 

"Do  you  want  to  know  what  happened  next? 
I'll  lay  that  youVe  wondered  many  a  time  just  what 
happened  after  you  had  so  strangely  dropped  asleep, 
with  your  head  in  your  plate.  Well,  I'll  tell  you 
what  happened.  I  sent  Stord  on  the  run  to  Bain- 
tree's  hotel.  He  bore  a  message  from  you.  He  told 
the  dear  captain  that  you  were  ill,  on  your  ship,  and 
that  you  wished  very  much  to  see  him.  You  can 
guess  how  the  old  fool  would  act  in  a  case  like  that. 
A  chance  to  do  a  good  deed,  store  up  treasures  in 
heaven,  all  that,  eh?  You  might  have  been  a  bad 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  277 

man  in  Freeport,  but,  you  were  sick  and  needed  him. 

"He  came  in  a  hurry,  all  a-flutter  like  an  old  hen. 
Just  as  I  knew  he  would  come.  And  as  he  leaned 
over  you,  in  your  own  cabin,  I — er — separated  him 
from  his  temporal  worries  with  an  iron  belaying 
pin  from  your  own  rail.  Then  I  gave  you  the  clout 
for  luck  (it  has  left  a  fine  scar,  I  note)  and  placed 
the  pin  on  the  table.  And  thus  your  chief  mate  dis 
covered  you  when  he  came  on  board,  you  and  your 
victim,  and  the  weapon  you  used,  just  as  I  planned. 
And  your  steward's  testimony,  and  my  reluctant 
admissions,  finished  you.  You  see,  Roy — neatness 
and  thoroughness ! 

"I  took  Stord  to  sea  with  me,  as  my  steward. 
But,  unfortunately,  he  went  over  the  side  one  dark 
night,  off  the  Horn.  A  loose  end  tucked  in,  eh,  Roy? 

"And  I'll  tuck  in  other  loose  ends  between  now 
and  dawn — you,  for  instance,  and  our  brave  Mister 
Lynch.  I  have  it  already  written  down  for  Fitz 
to  copy  into  the  logbook.  'During  the  fighting, 
James  Lynch,  second  mate,  was  stabbed  by  one  of 
the  mutineers;  but  owing  to  the  darkness  and  con 
fusion  his  assailant  was  not  recognized.'  That's 
how  the  log  will  read  when  we  bowse  into  port. 
And — 'During  the  fighting,  the  sailor,  Newman,  at 
tempted  to  escape  from  custody,  and  was  shot  by 
the  captain.'  You  see,  Roy,  everything  shipshape  I 
A  line  for  each  in  the  log — and  two  loose  ends 
tucked  in — eliminated! 

"You  will  have  some  time  in  which  to  think  it 


278  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

over,  before  it  happens,  Roy.  You  should  thank 
me  for  that — for  giving  you  something  to  think 
about.  It  will  take  your  mind  off  your  pain,  eh? 
Yes,  you  need  something  to  think  about,  for  you'll 
hang  there  for  four  or  five  hours  yet.  No  danger 
of  your  sleeping,  eh,  Roy?  Well,  keep  your  ears 
open  and  you'll  be  forewarned.  There'll  be  some 
shooting  on  deck.  I've  gone  to  a  great  deal  of  trou 
ble  to  bring  it  about;  your  shipmates  are  a  gutless 
crew,  Roy,  and  I  had  begun  to  think  I  could  not 
get  a  fight  out  of  them.  But  the  swabs  are  coming 
aft  at  the  end  of  the  mid-watch.  Eight  bells  in  the 
mid-watch — count  the  bells,  Roy.  Eight  bells — 
elimination ! 

"Then  there  will  be  just  one  loose  end  left — and 
you  know  what  I  have  planned  for  her!  Think 
about  it,  Roy — think  about  our  darling  little  Mary ! 
At  the  mercy  of  the  wolves,  Roy !  At  the  mercy  of 
our  dear,  gentle  Fitzgibbon!  At  the  mercy — yes, 
I  do  believe  at  the  mercy,  also,  of  my  new  second 
mate. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  already  nominated  for  the  office. 
Of  course,  he  must  first  remove  the  incumbent — 
but  that,  as  I  explained,  is  arranged  for.  He  is 
a  greasy  cockney,  gutter-snipe — but  useful.  I 
wouldn't  think  of  having  him  at  table  with  me,  Roy 
— but  I  think  I'll  let  him  amuse  himself  with  Mary—r 
after  Fitz!  Ah,  that  stings,  eh,  Roy!" 

It  did,  indeed.  Newman  lifted  the  face  of  a 
madman  to  his  torturer.  Aye,  the  creature's  vile 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  279 

words,  and  viler  threat,  had  stung  him  beyond  his 
power  of  self-control.  All  the  pent-up  fury  in  his 
soul  burst  forth  in  one  explosive  oath. 

"God  blast  you  forever, •Angus!"  he  cried. 

Just  that,  and  no  more.  Newman  had  his  grip 
again.  He  was  no  man  to  indulge  in  impotent 
ravings. 

But  the  outburst  was  sufficient  to  delight  Captain 
Swope.  He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  that 
chuckling,  demon's  laugh  of  his.  Delighted — why, 
he  could  hardly  control  himself  to  keep  his  seat  on 
the  keg,  and  as  he  laughed  his  feet  beat  a  jig  upon 
the  deck. 

"I  told  you  to  call  upon  God!"  was  his  gleeful 
answer  to  Newman.  "And  you  have !  Now,  we'll 
see  who  wins — you  and  God,  or  Angus  and  the 
Devil!  Eh,  Roy — who  wins? 

"We'll  see,  Roy — we'll  see  if  God  takes  your 
advice.  We'll  see  if  He  helps  you,  or  Lynch.  Or 
Mary.  Ah,  the  saintly  Mary,  the  pure,  the  unap 
proachable!  We'll  see  if  He  protects  her  from 
Fitz's  dirty  arms,  or  the  greasy  kisses  of  the  Cock 
ney!  Eh,  Roy?  We'll  see  if  He  keeps  her  from — 
eliminating  herself! 

"That's  the  way  of  it,  Roy.  Clever — yes?  Neat^ 
ness  and  thoroughness,  and  everything  shipshape 
and  Bristol  fashion — that's  my  style,  Roy.  I  know 
Mary  (who  should  know  her  better  than  her  legal 
spouse,  eh,  Roy?)  and  I  have  arranged  matters  so 
she  will  tuck  in  her  own  end.  Listen,  Roy,  I  have 


280  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

another  item  for  the  logbook  which  Fitzgibbon  will 
copy.  It  needs  but  a  date-line  to  be  complete.  It 
will  read  like  this :  'To-day,  while  suffering  from 
an  attack  of  temporary  insanity,  the  captain's  wife 
destroyed  herself.  The  captain  is  broken-hearted.* 
With  details  added,  Roy.  And  the  yarn  cabled 
home  when  we  make  port.  Suicide  at  sea — and  I 
am  broken-hearted!  Artistic,  eh?  And  she'll  do 
it — you  know  she'll  do  it!" 

He  sat  there  watching  Newman,  waiting.  I  sup 
pose  he  expected  and  desired  a  fresh  outburst  from 
the  prisoner.  But  in  this  he  was  disappointed; 
Newman  gave  no  sign. 

"Ah,  well,  I  fear  I've  overstayed  my  welcome 
this  visit,"  he  said,  finally.  He  got  to  his  feet,  and 
stood  before  Newman  with  legs  spraddled  and  arms 
akimbo;  drinking  in  lustfully  the  picture  of  the 
other  man's  utter  misery.  "Interesting  chat  we've 
had — old  times,  future,  and  all  that — eh,  Roy? 
But  a  sailor's  work,  you  know — -like  a  woman's — 
never  done.  I  have  duties  to  attend  to,  Roy.  But 
I  will  return — ah,  yes,  you  know  I  will  return.  You'll 
wait  here  for  me,  eh,  Roy?  Anxiously  awaiting  my 
return,  counting  the  bells  against  my  coming.  Well 
— remember — eight  bells  in  the  middle  watch." 

He  turned  and  stepped  towards  the  ladder.  With 
his  foot  raised  to  the  bottom  step,  he  stopped,  and 
stared  aloft,  mouth  agape.  I  stared  too,  and  lis 
tened. 

We  heard  a  shot,  a  single  pistol  shot. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  281 

The  captain  wheeled  upon  Newman.  His  hand 
flew  to  his  pistol  pocket.  But  he  did  not  draw.  He 
would  have  died  then  and  there,  if  he  had,  for  I 
was  tensed  for  the  leap. 

But  he  was  uncertain.  This  was  not  the  hour — 
and  the  other  shots,  the  volley,  we  both  expected  did 
not  come.  Instead,  came  the  second  mate's  voice 
bellowing  orders,  "Connolly — the  wheel!  Hard 
alee!  Weather  main  brace!"  Then,  clearer,  as  he 
shouted  through  the  cabin  skylights,  "Captain-— on 
deck,  quick!" 

It  was  the  hail  for  which  I  had  waited  so  long 
and  anxiously.  But  the  news  that  came  with  it  was 
strange  and  startling. 

"The  man  at  the  wheel,"  shouted  Lynch,  "has 
jumped  overboard  with  the  mate!"  Then  his  cry 
went  forward,  "Man  overboard  I" 

Swope  leaped  for  the  ladder.  I  saw  consterna 
tion  in  his  face  as  he  scurried  aloft. 

So  I  knew  that  this  was  something  he  hadn't 
arranged. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

I  WAS  at  Newman's  side  before  Captain  Swope's 
feet  vanished  from  the  ladder.  If  he  had 
paused  to  close  the  lazaret  hatch  behind  him, 
he  must  surely  have  seen  me.  But  he  did  not  pause; 
I  heard  his  steps  racing  up  the  companion  stairs  to 
the  poop,  and  his  voice  shouting  his  command: 
"Watch  the  main  deck,  Mister!  Light  a  flare!" 

I  threw  my  arms  about  Newman,  and  babbled  in 
his  ear.  uOh,  the  beast! — it's  I — Jack — the  devil, 
I  heard  what  he  said! — come  to  free  you!"  Truth 
to  tell,  the  things  I  had  overheard  unnerved  me 
somewhat,  and  I  was  incoherent,  almost,  from  rage 
and  horror. 

But  Newman  brought  me  to  myself  in  short 
order.  "I  know — but  not  so  loud — they'll  hear 
you!"  Aye,  his  first  words,  and  he  smiled  into  my 
face.  This  man  on  the  rack  smiled,  and  thought 
clearly,  whilst  I  babbled.  "Be  quick,"  he  bade  me. 
"Cut  the  lashings." 

I  obeyed  in  jig  time.  The  chains  of  both  the 
hand  and  foot  irons  were  secured  to  the  limbers  by 
rope  lashings.  With  two  strokes  of  my  knife  I 
severed  them.  Before  I  could  catch  him,  Newman 
fell  forward  upon  his  face.  His  misused  limbs 

could  not  support  him. 

282 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  283 

I  knelt  by  his  side,  sobbing  and  spluttering,  and 
fishing  in  my  pocket  for  the  key  the  lady  had  given 
me.  It  was  the  sight  of  his  raw,  bleeding  wrists 
and  ankles  that  maddened  me;  aye,  the  sight  of 
them  would  have  maddened  a  saint.  You  will  recall 
that  the  Old  Man  had  commanded  that  Newman's 
wrists  be  tightly  cuffed;  and  he  had  seen  to  it  that 
the  leg  cuffs  were  equally  tight.  Tight  ironing  was 
a  favorite  sport  of  Swope's;  he  was  notorious  for 
it  among  sailormen.  I  saw  the  results  upon 
Newman. 

The  flesh  above  the  irons  was  puffed  and  inflamed; 
the  constriction  and  chafing  had  broken  the  skin, 
and  the  cuffs  upon  both  arms  and  legs  were  buried 
in  the  raw  wounds.  Exquisite  agony — aye,  trust 
Swope  to  produce  that!  I  had  to  push  back  the 
swollen,  bruised  mass  before  I  could  insert  the  little 
flat  key,  and  effect  the  release. 

When  I  had  them  off,  I  turned  Newman  over  on 
his  back,  and,  with  my  arm  about  him,  prepared  to 
lift  him  erect.  Before  I  could  do  so,  assistance 
arrived.  Light  feet  pattered  down  the  lazaret  lad 
der;  there  was  a  swish  of  skirts,  a  gasp,  and  the 
lady  was  on  her  knees  by  Newman's  side.  "Roy — 
Roy — I  was  in  time — "  she  cried.  Her  arms  went 
around  his  neck. 

I  released  him  to  her  for  the  instant,  and 
straightened  up  and  listened.  There  was  noise  on 
deck,  and  confusion.  The  ship  was  in  stays;  she 
hung  there,  aback.  I  could  hear  Lynch,  somewhere 


284  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

forward,  bawling  orders;  and  overhead,  Swope  sang 
out  to  the  wheel,  and  then  hailed  the  roundhouse. 

"Roundhouse,  there — on  deck  and  lend  a  hand  I 
Man  the  lifeboat — lifeboat  falls,  there !  For  God's 
sake,  Mister — what's  the  matter  there  on  deck?" 

Oh,  he  was  worried,  was  Swope.  It  showed  in 
his  voice ;  for  once  his  tone  was  not  full  and  musical, 
it  was  shrill  and  screechy.  He  was  sorely  shaken, 
madly  anxious  to  save  his  faithful  jackal;  the  Elim 
inator  had  not  planned  Fitzgibbon's  removal. 

Thoughts,  questions,  rushed  through  my  mind. 
I  listened  for  other  sounds,  for  shots  and  shouts  and 
sounds  of  strife.  For  there  was  confusion  up  there 
on  the  dark  decks,  and  the  captain  had  forgotten  his 
caution  and  withdrawn  his  ambush.  I  knew  that 
Boston  and  Blackie  would  not  overlook  this  chance; 
promise  or  no  promise  they  would  profit  by  this 
occasion. 

It  was  this  thought  that  spurred  me  to  action. 
We  must  get  out  of  this  hole  we  were  in ;  the  lazaret 
was  a  trap.  The  die  was  cast;  the  mutiny  was  on — 
or  would  be  in  a  moment. 

I  said  as  much  to  my  companions.  Newman  at 
tempted  to  get  to  his  feet.  "A  hand,  Jack — it  must 
be  stopped,"  he  said. 

I  gave  him  the  hand.  More  than  that,  I  took  him 
upon  my  back  and  tottered  up  the  ladder  with  him, 
the  lady  assisting  as  well  as  she  was  able.  She  knew 
what  had  happened  on  deck,  and  she.  told  us  in  a 
word  or  two. 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  285 

She  had  not  been  able  to  find  Wong  (we  after 
wards  discovered  that  Wong  had  gone  forward  to 
the  galley,  and  surprised  the  crew  at  a  conference, 
and  had  been  detained  prisoner  by  them),  so  she 
crawled  up  the  companion  ladder  herself,  and  lurked 
in  the  cuddy,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  speak  with 
Lynch.  The  Nigger  was  at  the  wheel,  she  said. 
Fitzgibbon  walked  up  to  him  and  struck  him — as 
he  had  struck  him  many,  many  times  before.  But 
this  time  Nigger  did  not  submit — he  whipped  out 
his  knife  and  stabbed  the  mate.  More  than  that, 
he  grasped  the  mate  in  his  powerful  arms,  dragged 
him  to  the  taffrail,  and  flung  him  overboard.  It 
happened  so  quickly  that  neither  Connolly,  the 
tradesman,  nor  Lynch,  both  of  whom  were  on 
the  poop,  could  interfere.  But  Lynch  took  a  shot 
at  Nigger,  and  perhaps  struck  him,  for  Nigger 
went  over  the  rail  and  into  the  sea  with  his  vic 
tim. 

It  was  Nigger,  despised,  half-lunatic  Nigger,  who 
was  not  in  my  reckoning,  nor  in  Swope's,  who  put 
the  match  to  the  tinder  and  upset  such  carefully  laid 
plans.  As  I  feared,  the  revolt  of  the  crew  blazed 
up  immediately.  My  shipmates  were  eager,  too 
eager.  As  it  turned  out,  their  precipitancy  was  to 
cost  them  their  chance  of  victory,  for  they  began  to 
riot  while  the  three  tradesmen  were  still  handy  to 
the  roundhouse  door,  though,  indeed,  they  had  no 
knowledge,  as  had  I,  of  the  captain's  ambuscade. 

I  staggered  into  the  saloon,  and  set  Newman  down 


286  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

upon  the  divan  which  ran  around  the  half-round,  and 
which  was  but  a  step  from  the  hatch.  He  got  to 
his  feet  at  once,  and,  though  the  lady  and  I  stretched 
out  our  arms  to  catch  him,  this  time  he  did  not  fall. 
He  swayed  drunkenly,  and  hobbled  when  he  took  a 
step,  but  such  was  his  vitality  and  so  strong  the  urge 
of  his  will,  that  life  was  already  returning  to  his 
misused  limbs. 

It  was  just  then  that  pandemonium  broke  out  on 
deck — a  shot,  a  string  of  shots  and  a  bedlam  of 
howls  and  yells.  Overhead  was  bedlam,  too.  The 
skipper's  tune  changed  instanter.  He  had  been  sing 
ing  out  to  Mister  Lynch  to  "topsail  haul,"  and  to  the 
tradesmen  to  man  the  boat  falls — but  now  he  was 
screaming  to  the  latter  in  a  voice  shaken  with  excite 
ment — or  panic — to  regain  their  posts,  to  get  into 
the  roundhouse  and  "turn  loose  on  'em — pepper 
'em !  And,  for  God's  sake,  throw  out  the  flares !" 

Oh,  the  Great  Eliminator  was  shocked  most  un 
pleasantly  in  that  moment,  I  think — to  discover, 
when  his  trusty  mate  was  overboard,  that  his  muti 
nous  crew  had  firearms ! 

I  looked  to  Newman  for  orders,  for  he  was  now 
in  command  of  our  forlorn  hope.  But  he  had  his 
arm  about  the  lady's  shoulders,  and  was  speaking 
urgently  into  her  ear.  My  thought  was  of  a  place 
to  hide.  I  ran  towards  the  cabin  alleyway.  I  had 
no  intention  of  going  out  on  that  dangerous  deck, 
my  object  was  to  see  if  the  inner  door  to  the  sail- 
locker  was  unlocked.  In  the  sail-locker,  I  thought, 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  287 

we  could  hide,  the  three  of  us,  until  the  fight  died 
down. 

But  my  design  was  frustrated.  Before  I  reached 
the  sail-locker,  the  door  to  the  deck,  at  the  end  of 
the  alleyway,  burst  open,  and  the  tradesman,  Mor 
ton,  pitched  headlong  over  the  base-board.  He 
scrambled  to  his  hands  and  knees  and  scuttled  to 
wards  me.  There  was  a  whistling  thud  near  my 
head.  I  leaped  back  into  the  cabin,  out  of  range, 
so  quickly  I  tripped  and  sat  down  hard  upon  the 
deck.  For  a  shot  fired  after  the  fleeting  Morton 
had  just  missed  my  skull. 

Morton  crawled  into  the  saloon,  and  looked  at 
me  with  a  stupid  wonder  in  his  face.  He  was 
wounded;  he  nursed  his  shoulder,  and  there  was  a 
spreading  stain  upon  his  white  shirt. 

"They  have  guns — in  the  rigging,"  says  he.  Then 
he  grunted,  and  collapsed,  unconscious. 

The  heavy  roar  of  shotguns,  for  which  my  ear 
was  cocked,  did  not  come.  There  were  two  pistols 
in  action  overhead,  and  pistol  shots  rattled  forward, 
and  I  could  tell  from  the  sounds  that  a  free  fight  was 
raging  somewhere  on  the  main  deck.  But  the  heavier 
discharges  did  not  come.  For  an  instant  I  thought 
— aye,  and  hoped! — that  the  tradesmen  had  been 
cut  off  from  the  roundhouse. 

Suddenly  the  saloon  grew  bright  with  a  reflected 
glare.  I  was  on  my  feet  again,  and  I  peered  into 
the  alleyway,  looking  out  through  the  door  Morton 
had  opened.  The  roundhouse  cut  off  any  view  of 


288  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

the  main  deck,  but  I  could  see  that  the  whole  deck, 
aye,  the  whole  ship,  was  alight  with  a  growing  glare, 
a  dazzling  greenish-white  light. 

Then  I  knew  what  Captain  Swope  meant  when  he 
screamed  for  "flares."  Distress  flares,  signal  flares, 
such  as  a  ship  in  trouble  might  use.  He  had  stocked 
the  roundhouse  with  them. 

Cunning,  aye,  deadly  cunning.  This  was  some 
thing  Boston  and  Blackie  had  not  dreamed  of.  A 
flare  thrown  on  deck  when  the  men  came  aft — and 
slaughter  made  easy  for  the  defenders  of  the  round 
house  ! 

Something  of  this  I  spoke  aloud  to  Newman. 
There  was  no  answer,  and  I  became  conscious  he 
was  not  behind  me.  I  wheeled  about.  Newman, 
with  the  lady's  assistance,  was  hobbling  up  the  lad 
der  to  the  deck  above.  I  swore  my  amazement  and 
dismay  at  what  seemed  to  me  madness,  but  I  hur 
ried  after  them,  and  emerged  on  the  poop  at  their 
heels. 

The  night  was  banished  by  the  strong  light  flaring 
forward.  That  was  my  impression  when  I  leaped 
out  on  deck.  When  I  turned  forward,  I  saw  the 
whole  ship,  clear  to  the  foc'sle,  bathed  in  that  light. 
Not  one,  but  a  half  dozen  flares  were  burning  at 
once;  they  had  been  thrown  upon  the  deck  both  to 
port  and  starboard.  Everything  on  the  decks  was 
brightly  revealed,  every  ringbolt,  the  pins  in  the 
rails,  deadeyes,  sails,  gear,  aye,  every  rope  in  the 
rigging  was  boldly  etched  against  the  glowing  back- 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  289 

ground.  With  that  one  sweeping  glance  I  took  in 
the  scene.  High  up  in  the  main  rigging,  almost  to 
the  futtock  shrouds,  the  figure  of  a  man  was  re 
vealed:  he  was  blazing  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
poop  with  a  revolver.  On  the  deck,  near  the  main 
mast,  the  second  mate  was  laying  about  him  with  a 
capstan  bar,  and  a  dozen  men  seemed  boiling  over 
each  other  in  efforts  to  close  with  him.  Other  fig 
ures  lay  motionless  upon  the  deck. 

So  much  for  what  I  saw  forward;  what  concerned 
me  that  instant  was  what  was  right  before  my  eyes. 
Captain  Swope  was  leaning  against  the  mizzen  fife 
rail,  screened  by  the  mast  from  those  forward,  re 
turning  the  fire  of  the  man  in  the  rigging — but  no, 
even  as  I  clapped  eyes  upon  him,  he  shot,  and  I  saw 
he  aimed,  not  at  the  man  in  the  rigging,  but  at  the 
group  fighting  on  the  deck.  At  his  second  officer, 
no  less!  Aye,  and  I  understood  in  a  flash  why  I 
had  not  heard  the  shotguns;  the  tradesmen  had  not 
Swope's  murderous  intent  towards  Mister  Lynch, 
and  they  held  their  fire  because  they  could  not  rake 
the  gang  without  hitting  Lynch. 

The  tradesman,  Connolly,  was  crouched  against 
the  companion  hatch;  he  was  staring  after  Newman 
and  the  lady,  mouth  agape.  He  saw  them  directly 
they  appeared  on  deck,  which  Swope  did  not.  He 
raised  his  gun  uncertainly,  then  lowered  it,  then 
raised  it  again,  covering  Newman's  broad  back — 
and  by  that  time  I  was  upon  him,  my  clutch  was 
upon  his  wrist,  and  my  right  fist  impacted  violently 


290  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

against  his  head.  It  was  a  knockout  blow,  at  the 
base  of  the  brain,  and  he  slumped  down,  uncon 
scious.  I  straightened  up,  with  the  gun  in  my  hand. 

It  was  at  this  instant  that  Captain  Swope  became 
aware  of  our  presence.  It  was  Newman,  himself, 
who  attracted  his  attention — aye,  and  the  attention 
of  the  whole  ship,  as  well. 

For  Newman  had  marched  into  the  light.  He 
stood  now  almost  at  the  forward  poop  rail,  with  his 
arms  raised  above  his  head;  and  he  sent  his  voice 
forward  in  a  stentorian  hail,  a  cry  that  was  like  a 
thunderclap. 

"Stop  fighting,  lads!  Stop  it,  I  say!  It  is  I — 
Newman!  Stop  fighting  and  go  for'ard!" 

If  ever  a  human  face  showed  amazement  and  dis 
comfiture,  Swope's  did.  He  had  been  so  busy  at  his 
game  of  potting  his  officer  he  did  not  see  Newman 
until  the  latter  walked  into  his  range  of  vision  and 
sent  forth  his  hail.  He  could  have  shot  Newman 
then,  and  I  could  not  have  prevented,  for  he  had 
his  weapon  leveled.  But  this  sudden  apparition 
seemed  to  paralyze  him;  he  just  lowered  his  arm, 
and  stared. 

It  startled  and  paralyzed  all  hands.  The  struggle 
on  the  main  deck  ceased  abruptly.  It  was  the 
strangest  thing  I  ever  beheld,  the  way  Newman's 
thunderous  command  seemed  to  turn  to  graven 
images  the  men  on  deck.  They  were  frozen  into 
grotesque  attitudes,  arms  drawn  back  to  strike,  boots 
lifted  to  kick.  Mister  Lynch  stood  with  his  capstan 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  291 

bar  poised,  as  though  he  were  at  bat  in  a  baseball 
game.  Every  face  was  lifted  to  the  giant  figure 
standing  there  on  the  poop.  I  even  saw  in  the  bril 
liant  light  a  white  face  framed  in  one  of  the  port 
holes  in  the  roundhouse. 

Newman  repeated  his  command.  He  did  not  beg 
or  entreat;  he  commanded,  and  I  don't  think  there 
was  a  sailor  or  stiff  on  the  main  deck  who,  after  his 
first  word,  dreamed  of  disobeying  him.  Such  was 
the  big  man's  character  superiority,  such  was  the 
dominance  his  personality  had  acquired  over  our 
minds.  I  tell  you,  we  of  the  foc'sle  looked  upon 
Newman  as  of  different  clay;  it  was  not  alone  my 
hero-worship  that  magnified  his  stature,  in  all  our 
eyes  he  was  one  of  the  great,  a  being  apart  from  and 
above  us. 

And  not  only  foc'sle  eyes  regarded  him  in  this 
light.  There  were  the  tradesmen  peering  out  of  the 
roundhouse  ports,  with  never  a  thought  in  their 
minds  of  disobeying  his  injunction.  I  had  it  from 
their  own  lips  afterwards;  it  was  not  just  surprise 
at  the  big  fellow's  sudden  appearance  that  stayed 
their  hands,  it  was  the  power  of  his  personality. 
There  was  Mister  Lynch,  arrested  by  Newman's 
voice  in  mid-stroke,  as  it  were.  There  was  Swope, 
standing  palsied  and  impotent,  with  a  growing  ter 
ror  in  his  face. 

"Go  for'ard,  lads!  Go  below!  Come  up  here, 
Lynch!  Not  another  blow,  men — for'ard  with 
you!" 


292  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

The  frozen  figures  on  the  deck  came  to  life. 
There  was  a  murmur,  a  shuffling  of  feet,  and  Lynch 
lowered  his  great  club.  But  it  was  an  obedient 
noise. 

From  one  quarter  came  the  single  note  of  dissent. 
The  man  in  the  main  rigging  sang  out.  It  was 
Boston's  voice. 

"Go  aft,  mates!"  he  shouted.  "We've  got  them 
— we've  won — don't  listen  to  him !"  Then  he  threw 
his  voice  at  Newman.  "Damn  you,  Big  'Un,  you've 
spoiled  the  game!"  A  flash  followed  the  oath, 
and  a  splinter  flew  from  the  deck  at  Newman's 
feet. 

There  was  a  flash  from  my  gun  as  well.  I  fired 
without  taking  conscious  aim;  I  swear,  an  invisible 
hand  seemed  to  lift  my  arm,  a  finger  not  mine  seemed 
to  press  the  trigger — and  that  greedy,  murderous 
rascal  in  the  rigging  screamed,  and  loosed  his  hold. 
He  struck  the  sheer  pole  in  his  descent,  and  bounced 
into  the  sea. 

The  shots  seemed  to  awaken  Captain  Swope  from 
his  surprise  and  terror.  He  had  suddenly  moved 
with  catlike  swiftness;  when  I  lowered  my  eyes  from 
the  rigging,  I  saw  he  had  left  his  refuge  behind  the 
mizzenmast  and  was  standing  in  the  open  deck.  Aye, 
there  he  stood  in  that  light,  which  had  reached  its 
maximum,  revealed  to  all  eyes — and  stamped  upon 
his  face  was  an  expression  of  insane  fury  so  terrible 
and  deadly  he  seemed  not  a  human  being  at  all,  but 
a  mad  beast  crouched  to  spring.  His  lips  were 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  293 

drawn  back  from  his  teeth,  and  a  froth  appeared 
upon  his  black  beard.  The  crowd  forward  saw  the 
demon  unmasked  in  his  face,  even  as  I  saw  it,  and 
from  them  arose  a  gasping  "a-ah!"  of  horror. 

The  sound  caused  the  lady,  who  was  standing  at 
Newman's  elbow,  to  turn  around;  or  perhaps  it  was 
the  feel  of  Swope's  burning  eyes  that  spun  her  about 
so  quickly.  He  was  raising  his  arm,  the  arm  that 
held  the  gun,  not  quickly  but  slowly  and  carefully. 
With  a  stab  of  horror  I  saw  him  aim,  not  at  the 
man,  but  at  the  woman. 

No  outside  power  this  time  seemed  to  aid  me.  I 
shot.  I  should  have  hit  the  beast,  he  was  not  ten 
paces  distant — but  only  a  click  answered  when  my 
hammer  fell.  My  gun  was  empty.  I  threw  up  my 
arm,  intending  to  hurl  the  weapon,  and  I  think  I 
cried  out.  Swope  shot — and  the  lady  threw  up  her 
hands  and  fell. 

You  must  understand,  this  all  happened  in  a  brief 
instant  of  time.  Aye,  it  was  but  a  short  moment 
since  we  stepped  out  on  deck.  What  happened  after 
that  shot  must  be  measured  by  seconds. 

For  the  lady  was  still  falling,  and  my  hand  was 
still  reaching  behind  me  to  gather  energy  for  a 
throw,  when  Newman  bore  down  upon  his  enemy.  I 
had  not  seen  him  turn  around  even,  and  there  he 
was  at  arm's  grips  with  the  captain.  There  was 
another  flash  from  Swope's  revolver,  in  Newman's 
very  face.  It  was  a  miss,  for  Newman's  hands — 
helpless  lumps  of  flesh  but  a  few  moments  before — 


294  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

closed  upon  Swope's  neck.  I  saw  Newman's  face. 
It  was  a  terrible  face,  the  face  of  an  enraged  and 
smiting  god.  The  great  scar  stood  out  like  a  dark 
line  painted  upon  his  forehead. 

He  lifted  Swope  from  his  feet  with  that  throat 
grip.  He  whirled  him  like  a  flail,  and  smashed  him 
down  upon  the  deck,  and  let  him  go.  And  there 
Yankee  Swope  lay,  sprawled,  and  still,  his  head  bent 
back  at  a  fatal  angle.  A  broken  neck,  as  a  glance 
at  the  lolling  head  would  inform;  and,  as  we  dis 
covered  later,  a  broken  back  as  well.  It  was  death 
that  Newman's  bare  hands  dealt  in  that  furious 
second. 

Newman  did  not  waste  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the 
work  of  his  hands.  He  had  turned  to  the  lady,  with 
a  cry  in  his  throat,  a  low  cry  of  pain  and  grief — 
which  changed  at  once  to  a  shout  of  gladness.  For 
the  lady  was  stirring,  getting  to  her  feet,  or  trying 
to. 

Newman  gathered  her  slight  form  into  his  great 
arms.  I  heard  him  exclaim,  "Where,  Mary?  Did 
it — "  And  she  answered,  dazedly,  "I  am  all  right — 
not  hit."  He  took  a  step  towards  me,  towards  the 
companion.  The  swelling  murmur  from  the  deck 
arrested  him. 

He  walked  to  the  break  of  the  poop,  with  the 
woman  in  his  arms.  She  seemed  like  a  child  held  to 
his  breast.  He  spoke  to  the  men  below  in  a  hushed, 
solemn  voice. 

"It  is  ended,"  he  said.    "Swope  is  dead." 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  295 

As  he  stood  there,  the  flares  commenced  to  go  out. 
One  by  one  they  guttered  and  extinguished,  and  the 
black  night  swept  down  like  a  falling  curtain. 

Five  bells  chimed  in  the  cabin. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  was  the  end,  even  as  Newman  said.  The  end 
of  the  mutiny,  the  end  of  hate  and  dissension  in 
that  ship,  the  end,  for  us,  of  Newman,  himself, 
and  the  lady.  Peace  came  to  the  Golden 
Bough  that  night,  for  the  first  time,  I  suppose,  in 
her  bitter,  blood-stained  history.  A  peace  that 
was  bought  with  suffering  and  death,  as  we  dis 
covered  when  we  reckoned  the  cost  of  the  night's 
work. 

Swope  was  dead — for  which  there  was  a  prayer 
of  thanks  in  every  man's  heart.  Fitzgibbon  was 
gone,  and  the  Nigger.  Boston  was  dead  at  my 
hand;  his  partner,  Blackie,  lay  stark  in  the  scup 
pers,  as  did  also  the  stiff  named  Green,  each  with 
a  bashed  in  skull,  the  handiwork  of  Mister 
Lynch. 

Such  was  the  death  list  for  that  night's  work.  It 
was  no  heavier  I  think — though  of  much  different 
complexion — than  the  list  Captain  Swope  had 
planned. 

As  for  wounded — God's  truth,  the  Golden  Bough 
was  manned  by  a  crew  of  cripples  for  weeks  after. 
Lynch  had  wrought  terribly,  there  on  the  main  deck 
— broken  pates,  broken  fingers,  a  cracked  wrist,  a 
broken  foot,  and  three  men  wounded,  though  not 

296 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  297 

seriously,  by  Swope's  and  Connolly's  shots.  Such 
were  the  foc'sle's  lighter  casualties.  Aft,  the  list 
was  shorter.  Morton  had  a  bullet  wound  in  the 
shoulder;  it  would  lay  him  up  for  the  rest  of  the 
passage,  but  was  not  dangerous.  Connolly  had  a 
lump  behind  his  ear.  Lynch  was  bruised  a  bit,  and 
his  clothes  were  slashed  to  ribbons,  otherwise  he  had 
escaped  scathless. 

The  lady  was  not  really  hurt  at  all.  Swope's 
bullet  plowed  through  her  mass  of  hair,  creasing 
her  so  lightly  the  skin  was  unbroken,  though  the  im 
pact  knocked  her  down. 

I  was  almost  the  only  man  on  the  ship  who  bore 
no  marks  of  that  fight,  though  I  was  a  sight  from 
the  beating,  and  Lynch — or  perhaps  it  was  Newman 
— made  me  bo'sun  of  the  deck  in  the  labor  of  bring 
ing  order  out  of  chaos.  I  rallied  the  unhurt  and 
lightly  hurt,  and  we  carried  the  worse  injured  into 
the  cabin,  where  the  lady  and  Newman  attended 
them.  I  opened  the  barricaded  galley,  and  freed  the 
frightened  Chinamen,  Wong  and  the  cook  and 
the  cabin  boy,  and  Holy  Joe,  the  parson.  As  I 
learned  afterwards,  Holy  Joe,  when  he  learned 
of  the  intended  mutiny,  threatened,  in  vain  at 
tempt  to  stop  it,  to  go  aft  and  blow  the  plot. 
Blackie  and  Boston  wanted  to  kill  him  for  the 
threat,  but  the  squareheads  would  not  have  it  so, 
and  he  was  shut  up  in  the  galley  with  the  China 
men. 

By  Lynch's  order,  we  launched  the  dinghy,  and, 


298  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

with  me  at  the  tiller  and  two  lordly  tradesmen  at 
the  oars,  set  out  in  humane  but  hopeless  quest  for 
the  mate  and  the  Nigger.  I  cruised  about  for  nigh 
an  hour,  and  came  back  empty-handed.  We  had  not 
really  expected  to  find  them,  or  trace  of  them.  Fitz- 
gibbon  had  been  stabbed,  and  it  was  known,  also, 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  swim;  and  as  for  the 
Nigger,  "I  plugged  him  as  he  jumped,"  said  Lynch. 

When  we  got  back,  Lynch  had  me  muster 
the  available  hands,  and  we  launched  the  long 
boat.  All  the  rest  of  the  night,  Wong  and  his 
two  under-servants  cargoed  that  craft  with  stores 
of  every  kind. 

One  other  man  had  lost  his  mess  number  in  that 
ship,  we  discovered,  as  the  night  wore  on.  The 
traitor.  We  found  not  hide  or  hair  of  Cockney;  he 
was  gone  from  the  ship,  leaving  no  trace.  At  least, 
no  trace  I  could  discover.  But  when  I  looked  for 
him,  I  became  conscious  of  a  new  attitude  towards 
me  on  the  part  of  my  shipmates.  I  had  been  their 
mate,  in  a  way  their  leader  and  champion.  Now,  by 
virtue  of  Lynch's  word — and  Newman's — I  was 
their  boss.  I  was  no  longer  one  of  them.  Aye,  and 
sailorlike  they  showed  it  by  their  reserve.  They  said 
truthfully  enough  they  did  not  know  what  had  be 
come  of  Cockney — and  they  kept  their  guesses  to 
themselves.  But  my  own  guess  was  as  good,  and  as 
true.  Boston  and  Blackie  had  attended  to  Cockney. 
I  could  imagine  how.  A  knife  across  the  windpipe 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  299 

and  a  boost  over  the  side ;  without  doubt  some  such 
fate  was  Cockney's. 

Mister  Lynch  made  no  effort  to  put  the  ship  on 
her  course.  We  left  the  yards  as  they  were,  and 
drifted  all  the  rest  of  the  night.  I,  and  the  un- 
wounded  tradesmen,  kept  the  deck;  in  the  cabin,  the 
lady  and  Newman  labored,  and  conferred  with 
Lynch  and  Holy  Joe.  Aye,  Holy  Joe,  as  well  as  my 
self,  was  lifted  to  higher  estate  by  that  night's 
happenings.  He  lived  aft,  even  as  I,  the  rest 
of  the  voyage,  and  was  doctor  of  bodies  as  well  as 
souls. 

Near  dawn,  they  called  me  into  the  cabin,  and  put 
dead  man's  shoes  upon  my  feet,  so  to  speak. 

"Shreve,  it  is  my  duty  to  take  the  ship  into  port," 
says  Lynch.  "What  will  be  the  outcome  of  to 
night's  work,  I  do  not  know.  But  I  do  not  fear. 
My  testimony,  and  that  of  the  sailmakers  and  car 
penters,  to  say  nothing  of  your  story,  and  the  stories 
of  the  other  men  forward,  will  be  more  than  suffi 
cient  to  convince  any  court  of  justice.  There  will  be 
no  jailing  because  of  to-night's  trouble — you  may 
tell  the  men  that." 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied.  Aye,  it  was  good  news  to 
take  forward  to  the  poor  shaking  wretches  in  the 
foc'sle. 

"You  understand,  I  am  captain  for  the  remainder 
of  the  passage,"  Lynch  went  on.  "And  I  have  de 
cided  to  appoint  you  chief  mate.  Connolly  will  be 
second  mate." 


300  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

Aye,  that  was  it.  Jack  Shreve,  chief  mate  of  the 
Golden  Bough!  "I  have  decided,"  says  Lynch — 
but  I  knew  the  decision  belonged  to  Newman  and  the 
lady,  who  were  smiling  at  me  across  the  table. 

"And  you  understand — they  are  leaving  in  the 
longboat,"  added  Lynch. 

I  looked  at  my  friend,  and  the  lady,  and  my  new 
honor  was  bitter  and  worthless  in  my  mouth. 

"Take  me  with  you,"  I  urged. 

"To  share  an  outlaw's  career?  No,  lad — we  must 
go  alone,"  said  Newman.  I  remember  he  added  to 
Lynch,  "If  this  boy  proves  the  friend  to  you  he  was 
to  me,  you  will  be  a  lucky  man,  Captain." 

The  sky  was  just  graying  with  the  coming  day 
when  the  two  left  the  ship.  But  before  they  went 
over  the  side,  there  took  place  in  the  growing  light 
on  the  deck  before  the  cabin  a  scene  as  strange  and 
solemn  as  any  I  have  seen  since.  Holy  Joe  married 
them,. there  on  the  deck — and  in  the  scuppers,  behind 
the  lady's  back,  covered  up  with  a  spare  sail,  lay 
the  ship's  dead,  Yankee  Swope  among  them.  Aye, 
the  parson  tied  the  knot,  for  this  life  and  next,  as 
he  said,  and  I  was  best  man,  and  Captain  Lynch  gave 
away  the  bride. 

"Roy  Waldon,  do  you  take  this  woman — "  that 
was  the  way  the  parson  put  it,  standing  there  before 
them,  with  his  one  good  hand  holding  the  Book, 
peering  up  into  Newman's  face  through  his  puffed, 
blackened  eyes.  A  minister  in  dungaree!  "Mary 
Swope,  do  you  take  this  man — "  that  was  how  he 


THE  BLOOD  SHIP  301 

put  it.  And  though  the  lady's  face  was  wan  and 
haggard,  yet  there  was  a  glory  in  it  beyond  power 
to  describe. 

And  then  they  cast  off  from  the  ship,  those  two 
who  were  now  one.  Newman  stepped  the  mast,  and 
drew  aft  the  sheet,  and  the  little  craft  caught  the 
breeze  and  scudded  away  from  us.  We  lined  the 
rail,  lame  men  and  well  men,  and  cheered  our  fare 
well.  I  wept. 

A  long  time  we  watched  them.  The  sun  leaped 
up  from  the  sea,  and  the  longboat  seemed  to  sail  into 
its  golden  heart;  and  after  the  sun  had  risen  above  it, 
the  boat  was  visible  for  a  long  time  as  a  dwindling, 
ever  dwindling  speck.  I  moved  up  onto  the  poop, 
the  longer  to  see.  So  did  Lynch.  Side  by  side,  we 
watched  the  speck  dip  over  the  rim  of  the  sea. 

Lynch  sighed,  and  walked  away.  I  heard  him 
exclaim,  and  turned  to  observe  him  picking  up  some 
thing  from  the  deck.  He  held  it  out  to  me,  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

It  was  a  little  wisp  of  hair,  the  lady's  hair,  a  relic 
of  the  battle.  Lynch  stared  at  it — then  he  looked 
out  over  the  sea,  into  the  path  of  the  sun.  Aye, 
and  there  was  that  in  his  eyes  which  opened  mine. 
I  began  at  last  to  understand  Bucko  Lynch — "Cap 
tain"  Lynch  as  he  was  to  remain  to  the  end  of  his 
days.  I  knew  from  that  look  in  his  eyes  why  no 
parson  would  now  ever  say  to  him,  "Do  you  take 
this  woman?" 

Slowly,  Lynch  put  the  little  wisp  of  hair  into  his 


302  THE  BLOOD  SHIP 

waistcoat  pocket.  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders ;  then  he  hailed  me  with  sea- 
manly  brusqueness. 

4 'Lively,  now,  Mister — we'll  put  the  ship  on  her 
course!" 

"Yes,  Captain,"  I  answered.  And  the  "Mister" 
roared  his  first  command  along  those  decks. 

THE  END 


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LD  21-100m-8,'34 


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